Suddenly I no longer see an urban street in New Zealand. Instead, my mind revisits a scene on a dirt road in rural Arkansas. Before me stands a solitary farm house surrounded by green pastures as far as the eye can see. An old wooden swing hangs by two silver chains from the light blue ceiling of the wide front porch.
An upended old wooden crate on an urban front porch. A swaying old wooden swing on a rural farmhouse porch. Both wait for their owners to return and sit, when they will once again be silent participants in an ancient custom that transcends cultures and generations.
Do you sit on your front porch and share the day's end with family or neighbors?
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