May 28 2007, 10:44 PM The Telltales

Recent travels have put into focus the split, in some places, between the nature in which we live and the lengths we go to control it. The patch of land around the house is, I think, a useful mix. I chip away at the weeds and the grasses, and I hoe around the plants I wish to keep to mostly rid the garden of the plants I do not. The greenery is somewhat shabby, but not too much so, and I'd rather it this way. Not so much to annoy the neighbors, mind, but a soft edge is good to remember just what it is I'm doing out there. It is worth it to halt the toils to become still, and watch a fledgling robin try to make sense of the garden fence, tufts of down still poking from its head.

At night, all of that fades into shadow, usually. Above the patio is a motion sensing floodlight. I could put a switch on the thing so that it doesn't blast the hammock in the evenings, but: the floodlight has a timer, so if one is still in the hammock for long enough, it settles in and goes dim. The hammock is good for being still in, so this hasn't been too much of a problem, so far.

(There are reasons to twitch in hammocks, but they do not apply to me, no?)

Sometimes, when I step out onto the porch with the mandolin, it is slightly unnerving to see that the floodlight is on, brought to glaring bright life by something that wasn't me, at some point in the past 5 minutes, down there at the bottom of the stairs. It was in all likelihood just the neighbor's cat. It may have been the shadowy groundhog that has been making rounds. It may be Something Else. I have recently had experience with Something Else. But I hear nothing, and see nothing, and the light eventually fades, bringing back in the night.

Some nights, it is good to stop it all and just play the mandolin on the porch. Most nights, actually. When I remember.