I live on a quiet street in a neighborhood that was built in the 1950s. Some of my neighbors have been here for 40 years. We keep an eye out for one another. There are some impressively large trees, but none in my yard. I thought I'd plant at least one or two, but I've been here for six years and I haven't done anything like that yet. I keep up with the lawn. I don't keep up with the edging. I try to remember to keep the bushes trimmed (mostly because if I don't do it, my yardwork-centric neighbors will do it for me, and then I feel guilty. I do not feel guilty when they decide that they have had enough and it is time to clandestinely weed-whack my lawn, which they do, about once or twice a year).
There are a number of cats that don't belong to anyone in particular. There's a lovely gray one that hunts in the backyard. I know this because occasionally I'll see it stalking birds. I always wonder if Donald and James wish they could go outside and do similar things, but they seem happy enough to just sit in the windows and on the furniture and sleep.
It rained today, and stayed fairly cool, so the air had that heavy, damp quality that I usually associate with late spring. I stood outside for a while, watching the more motivated fireflies flicker, listening to the rain drip in the downspouts. It's almost August. I hate August. Tonight was nice, though. I have no complaints about tonight.