There's a man in a hat in my front yard. I can tell from looking out the window that he's humming as he pulls weeds and picks up twigs and sweeps the shreds of mown grass off the sidewalk.
Sam doesn't meditate. He goes outside and gets dirty, digging and planting and tidying and snipping and filling buckets with dead flowerheads and bits of thistle and brown pokeweed stems. There's a huge grass stain on his knee and I think he tore the back pocket of his jeans again, and none of that matters.
There's a man in a hat in my front yard, and he is a happy man, and I love him.