The rocking chairs swing forward and back, their shiny white paint dulled by multiple layers of pollen I’ve yet to find the inspiration to remove. The narrow planks of floor are dotted with swallow poop, evidence of the ineffectiveness of the swallow deterrent my brother helped me install in the eaves. Last fall’s pine straw, flattened by rain, has escaped the confines of the edging around the shrubs and the yard is pitted with holes dug by dastardly armadillos.