Ode to My Back Yard

Whilst out-of-doors in The North, there is but one place in which I spend the majority of my time. This place is of course my backyard. 'Tis a big backyard, especially considering that our previous abode Down South was an apartment with not even a fire escape upon which to set a potted plant, let alone grass-covered territory to call our own. Up North there is little landscaping of note (unless one counts the holes dug by my sprightly hounds and the sprightly hounds before them), but despite this I consider the space beyond our back door be quite beautiful. In fact, it is worthy of praise.

The fence is lined by birch trees, which in turn guard a forest of spruce. The latter are prone to sway drunkenly in the breeze (it may be noted that this town has more than its fair share of drunken swaying, though such an endeavour is not to be accredited entirely to the spruce), while the former maintain their dignity with only the slightest fluttering of foliage. The changes of autumn have only enhanced the allure of my backyard.

The leaves have begun their striking metamorphosis into mulch; I am an eager spectator to the miracle that is fall. Whether red, orange, yellow or brown the flora is at its best at harvest time. Even those fronds already close to the ground, though they have not far to drop, are tinted with the richness of the season. Sprawling vines and sprouting blades are just as striking as the giant trees above: they stand, or rather, crouch, as a reminder that fascination is not to be encountered only at eye level, but can also be found at one's feet. 

Indeed, the natural floor is home to a variety of small wonders.

A forest of moss streams amongst the grass like waves amid stocky seaweed. The red leaf; a buoy that signals the existence of shallow waters. The yellow; an electric eel swimming by, nonplussed. Too much? Plod along, I'll quit this silly simile. A digression, to be sure.

Like the sea, my backyard is a world unto its own. What lies beyond its chain-linked borders?

The realm beyond my yard is a wild one, charging with creatures both weighty and wee.

Most mornings a silhouette can be seen in the gloomy shadows of the forest. A neighbouring dog, big, black and bushy, leaves his lair for a morning foray, or perhaps returns home in the wake of a night of canine pursuits. Strays meander routinely through the woods, and doubtless many creatures of a wilder nature pad the mossy floor as well. Lamentably, some newer beings have been introduced to this most natural setting: the plastic critter is strewn by man and burrows into the landscape with great permanence.

Not to be forgotten are the winged creatures which call the forest their playing-grounds. 

There is a house in the trees which either stands empty or its inhabitant is most introverted, coming and going unseen. At any rate it is most convenient lodging. The ominous raven can be seen and heard, a black presence whipping its wings overhead as it careens to the top of a spruce. Although the raven's beak is generally kept empty for the purpose of incessant chatter, I once beheld such a being with a sizeable fish in its bill. 

The most frequent visitors to the back yard, however, are the pups. It is they who can most appreciate the backyard and its generous bounties of sights, sounds and smells. To them it is a patch of terrain on which fetching and frolicking abound, but also one which is to be carefully guarded. One may rest assured that the perimetre has been well marked.

Brother and sister are yet to be best of friends, but as partners in mischief they often have prolonged bouts of camaraderie, however precarious. The familial bonds will strengthen with the seasons, surely. 

As the signs of winter reveal themselves ever more blatantly, the backyard will likely be used less frequently (by myself, at the least), but I am certain that its beauty will, if not remain constant, be appreciated in a whole new light.