On the deck, the sunlight is dappled. From abroad comes the laughter of children frolicking in the gardens; the squeak of a perching squirrel; and the sweet pulsing notes of a scarlet-cloaked cardinal (perched right above me in the upper reaches of an oak), serenading in search of a ladylove. His persistent call is in time rewarded, by an answering aria from the neighboring woods (I’d wed you, big guy, were I a lass of thine own kind). And blessedly, improbably absent from this natural symphony, on this the Lord’s day, set aside and sanctified for rest and contemplation: the throaty roar and petrol stench of powermowers. Most of us took care of that task yesterday, and the rest just wisely decided, Aww, let the green grass grow.
Over the past few months, I’ve been going in to work on weekends -- serving the mission, “Saving American Lives”. But today, durn it, I figured it was high time to live an American life. For it is this, just such as this, that is worth saving.
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