Every few days, I sit outside on my front porch, textbook in my lap with my right hand petting the top of my yellow lab’s graying head.

Around seven, the neighbors two doors over come outside to feed their animals. Usually the mother comes out, hair rustling in the breeze, her two little boys trailing behind her. I always know she’s there before I see her. The animals go crazy making all sorts of grunting and neighing and barking noises, eagerly shuffling their way towards the sacred black bucket that holds their dinner.

She feeds the pig first. At least, I assume there’s a pig hiding behind the tarp and sheet metal. I don’t know what else would make grunting sounds like that, except maybe the miniature pony. She sprinkles bits of bread and grain down for the ducks and chickens, and fills the trough for the goats and the pony.

"Gracie!" she yells in a startlingly deep, gruff voice. The big white fluffy dog stops eating out of the trough, or taunting the baby goats, or chasing the chickens, or whatever has gotten her in trouble.

The little boys climb up and over the fences, stumbling in tiny boots, laughing and screaming as they chase each other and the animals. Today the older boy is dressed in black, the younger in bright orange, like a fiery comet trailing his brother.

In the glowing sunset, I can see the mothers hair shine gold like a halo. She bends down toward the dog house, her sons on either side, and picks up something small and delicate. Maybe it’s a bunny, or a chick, or some other small creature. They’re too far away to tell. She cradles the critter near her neck, that hair shimmering as it whips in the wind. I like to imagine that she’s Mother Nature herself, caring for her own little farm.

I look down at The Unfinished Nation and continue reading about the young boys fighting in the Great War, the war to end all wars, knowing that there’s a much more terrible war coming in two decades that their boys will fight in.

I look back up at the boys in black and orange. The father is standing there now, dressed in blue, head bent towards his wife or the animal in her arms. I can’t tell. He walks towards the pony, inspects the gate.

The mother is done now. She cleans up, putting away tools and feed and buckets. The boys have found basketballs, attempting to shoot with their small arms. I look down at my book and back up again and the dad is playing with them. I can hear the pwing of the balls on the hard ground, the excited chatter and giggling from the boys as the dad plays with them enthusiastically. He runs down the asphalt and makes a superb layup, the ball swishing in the net. His wife walks by, smiling slightly before trudging towards the house.

I stand up. My dog is tired and we need to go in. I walk towards the door, but stop and look at the scene before me. Now it’s my turn to smile slightly.

If only every family were like that family, I think. This world might be a better place.