We observe families of deer nibbling sprouts and delivery men stacking packages on porches. We smell the earth after a rainstorm mingled with our neighbors’ smoke—tobacco, sometimes weed. We watch the leaves peel off their green masks and the moving trucks usher furniture and families in and out. We eat Honeycrisps from the farmer’s market and McDonald’s French fries. We feel the grass tickling our toes, and the hard, hot asphalt burning our heels. We listen, during summer evenings, to the crickets’ symphony, but in November, with naked branches, it’s the distant growl of barreling semis that interrupts the quiet. We say hello to the gaggle of turkeys bobbling through our yard, but we don’t know them—the half-dozen females, one hobbling with a gnarled, dangling leg. We wave at our neighbors, though we know them, their suffering, even less.
Robin Toorians