The fence that was damaged from last year’s snowstorm is still sitting in the garden in rusted pieces. A couple trees still mark the boundary between our yard and theirs, but the damage from the felled pines lingers. Fortunately, the hammock trees are still up. Perfect for a breezy afternoon.
Cars whiz past in a rush to go from one light to the next. Each car has a unique story to it, I can only imagine. The blue van is running late for Grandma’s birthday. The gray sedan is picking her date up for a picnic in the park. A whole slew of cars are rushing past to get to an important business meeting…on a Sunday. The gears of capitalism never stop, I suppose.
A dog barks on the other side of the school, but only for a few moments. Perhaps he scared the people off. Or she.
The gentle breeze tickles my nose and my eyelashes. The hairs on my legs stand up as it picks up for an instant. My hammock rocks oh so slightly, enough to lull a peaceful writer into an afternoon nap…