I don't really know what a dooryard is
I suspect it's the lawn around a house,
contextualized a meaning from the words
of fingertips that work much better than mine in the moonlight
I've felt the cold wet grass wisping against my ankles
And known I was on a property, a sought out, fought for place
Weeds beaten back with sprays and powders and gasoline cans
But all I saw was the blueish light
skimming the tips and bends of the blades
I heard the coyote pack cheering at a football game my very first time, and wasn't sure they wouldn't come past the tree line.
I saw plastic toys with doors open, children running for the TV or the toilet
The yellow and red Flintstone car grayed beyond color in the dark,
parked with one wheel off the pavement
I've watched men and women pushing mowers through the jungle, height adjusted for desired effect and minimum damage
I've had parties in the dooryard
before I knew it was called that.
Before I melted into the vernacular of a new story
and floated into the night.