I’m busy in the flower bed,
but I watch them in my peripheral vision.
Two men on the porch,
each with a beer in his right hand.
A few thoughts exchanged —
a few laughs, a sip —
then they fade into silence.
I turn just a little —
a tad, you might say —
to get a better look
without being conspicuous.
And they’re just sitting there.
Each rocking his chair
in rhythm with the other.
The porch creaks softly beneath them.
Cicadas hum somewhere beyond the fence.
Evening settles slow around them.
Both staring out
at the landscape.
Not at me,
but at everything around me
and everything above me.
Moments pass,
and they are perfectly content
without another word between them.
Just a slow, gentle rocking
that says it all.
The Real Janna Hill in 