The screen door bounced twice as it closed. Screen doors in the city don't do that anymore. The bounce of the door is as much a part of summer at the farm as is the smell of freshly turned soil in neat rows receding to the horizon or the musty air in the bottom of the barn where the animals spend the night. In the country the odour of horse manure has a sweetness to it. In the city it is to be avoided.

Context shapes everything.

'til tomorrow . . .