Watching Dogs On My Lawn

Watching Dogs On My Lawn The faded beige cushions begin to warm as the sun rises above the palm tree in my backyard. As if beige isn't already a faded color, yet it soaks up the heat like any good brown, black, or a dark green color would. What does it take for the truth to penetrate my soul, like the sun weaves and soaks into the fabrics of the cushions beside and below me? So wildly warming and reflecting the coming of this day. The birds chirp, and the wind chimes so slightly sway, and a lone Crow announces its passing. The whole day is before me. I wonder if I will be productive, like society would like me to be. Is the shadow of the flower in the vase that wiggles curiously across my page productive? Was that oatmeal I just ate full of the most delicious cinnamon and perfectly ripe bananas and dates productive? The wooden wind chimes Have ramped up their rhythm perhaps in desperation to be productive too. What if I sat here all day? What if I sat here all day on my front porch and listened to the dogs bark, and garage doors open and close, and people walking by on their phones speaking loudly, and people walking their dogs, or watching dogs on my lawn, or the flock of birds going somewhere above me, I do not know where they go, or the hum of the freeway ebbing and flowing like a tide, and the shadows of the trees warming and cooling me and the car doors closing, and the front doors closing, and the wind whistling in the palms, and my face warming in the rays, and my hair blowing in my face, and little ends getting stuck in the corners of my mouth. Maybe a baby will be born today, or someone will get a new job or a new hairdo. There's a notebook sitting quietly beside me. I'm always surrounded by notebooks. Perhaps I'll just sit here and notice, surrounded by my notebooks. The truth is, someday, I’ll do just that. I’ll simply sit and notice the day away. Perhaps that’s the most productive thing I could do.