Oh, and bring groceries in each Sunday, but when I'm busy doing those things I don't pay much attention to where I am doing them. The front yard is the forgotten country, except for the bits I see through my window. The bits I see are mostly the taller bushes and the mulberry tree and, when I stand up, the expanding brown patches of the lawn.
Come to think of it, the front yard is a lot like the rest of my life: something in the background, of which I take vague notice between naps.