Obviously I can't mow the yard. It's gonna rain. It's always gonna rain some time, too. But today it's gray/grey and thick and quiet except for that subtle tinnitus-like screetch of whatever insects do that stringy buzz, and a chirp here or there, and it's perpetually threatening to rain.
Of course I'm not just talking about the weather here, fellow residents of The Lower Marlborough Whatever The Hell We Call Ourselves Again I Forget.
Anyway, you really don't have to think of me as part of your street, the way I'm a-kilter down here set back from the corner and all. I could almost be the abandoned old farmhouse in the field that gives the neighborhood character.
From these windows I can see more of the lay of the block than any of you can from yours.
Death, death, death, death, death. With a barely-moving tangle of moist verdant background-buzz life all around---all around its head---about to burst forth with who-knows-what, or more nothing.