The Suburban Frontier

I've decided that I live on the edge, the gray area, the restricted zone between neatly pressed suburbia and backwoodsy country. As the sirens are going off, I'm driving down a shortcut to reach my house and notice 4 or 5 people standing at the edges of their driveways, looking up at the sky and probably listening for the freight train tornado sound.

And then I passed an actual, live, clucking, befeathered chicken on the side of the road.

I turned the corner, drove a couple hundred feet, and turned into my subdivision. The streets here are deserted, no neighbors, no chickens, just closed garage doors and neat lawns as far as the eye can see. Somewhere, I drove over the imaginary border between here and there. I wish it were visible. I would spend more time thinking about the crossing over if that chicken were the gatekeeper at the border checkpoint.

As it is, I've spent some time thinking about how it feels to be within spitting distance of chickens and storm chasers. I've decided to rename my subdivision the Suburban Frontier. It brings to mind the image of tumbleweeds of grass clippings and peaceful streets enforced by the white hats of the homeowner's association.