The garbage truck broke branches from my tree, now strung about the yard like butchery. Such fractured paradise a suburb is. These quiet evenings, sprinklers coming on — I’m smitten. My wild love may be obscene, when so much in the world is wrong. Desperation, poverty, loneliness, yes, some of it very specific, some of it in this very specific neighborhood. But God takes all forms. Don’t tell me that’s not him I hear in my teenage neighbor’s garage band or in the sewage system that still works despite the county politics: I know a miracle when I encounter one. I’ll worship here with barbecue and rake, in recycling dumpster and PTA. I wave to my neighbors from my porch. God bids me love. I do.