I squat behind the house, grass on my ass, glancing at the black and cloudy sky. I have always peed outside. Dogs bark, faithfully, into and through the night. In front of me lit by the porch light: a rack for shoes, messy woodshed, a yellow broom. Squatting in the darkness how sad it all seems-- these meager tools to sweep with, like hands of a clock ticking, and for what? Inside my family sleeps, their shoes are piled on the rack. There is mud caked into the grooves. I stand. The used bit of paper I hold will be tossed into the wood stove and burn instantly, that is good. My shaggy little friend leaves his barking comrade and runs to me. His jaws hang open in what must be joy. What a dapper life he leads! He is shedding his winter coat. I go inside, toss the paper in the fire, and listen as my little friend rejoins his comrade on the front lines. The barking will not keep me up.