HeyJaredbackyard notes
prose and poetry about nature, spirituality, and living with it all
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Sep 29, 2026
- Audience
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 31, 2026
Latest issues
September (opens the original)
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September is a largely forgettable month. Not insignificant — no, of course not. Simply a slow, gradual tipping point. Summer has held us so tightly in its grasp that we have forgotten what it feels like when its fingers loosen, when the hard edge of heat in the air liquefies into a cool, crisp fragrance that we can just barely detect in the mornings and evenings. It is so subtle that we often miss it. We are too busy daydreaming of pumpkin spice lattes and cozy sweaters to come, saying “I don’t
Death of a Poet (opens the original)
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There are so many things that I could say about Wendell Berry in light of his passing, but most, if not all, of these things have already been said by others much more eloquent than I. I recently finished his novel Jayber Crow, and was immensely comforted by the titular character’s experience of community as a single person. It felt like a last gift from Mr. Berry. Maybe soon I’ll write about it. For now, I have a poem that I jotted down this morning.Text within this block will maintain its orig
August (opens the original)
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August is a fever dream. It’s been a very hot, wet summer here at the far edge of the Midwest. The days pass in pulsing tides of humid heat followed by pelting rain showers and the occasional violent nighttime thunderstorm. I’m jerked awake by a clap of thunder snapping across the sky, and then kept up, albeit in some hazy dream state, by the near constant lightning plastering strange silhouettes across my bedroom walls. Some storms last for hours, and I start to realize what Plato might have be
July (opens the original)
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July is a month to ramble, to see what there is to see. We are now so settled into summer that it feels eternal — like we can drive hundreds of miles north or south and never push the boundaries; like the season is as round as the Earth, a planet of its own. Life is a blanket over the land, tucked in securely around it, with no threat of such monsters in the closet as cold and frost yet to appear. In July, I am not worried about leaving anything behind — it is all eternal summer, locked in a dre
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