All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the time which I then (bored) weeded. Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in rooms, sat, sat, while at the field, wheel I drove, steered, paddled. It wasn't even boredom, it was looking, looking hard and up close at the small details. Myopia. The worn tip of the hill, the intricate twist of the grass. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular red sand, its igneous veins, the land of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying bristles on the back of my neck.
Sometimes I would whistle, sometimes I wouldn't. The boring rhythm of doing things over and over, walking at the field, driving nowhere. Such minutiae. It's what the groundhogs spend most of their time at, ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels, shuffling the leaves in their burrows.
I would look at the crinkle texture of my finger, earth under the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier all the time then, although it more often rained, and more birdsong? I could hardly wait to get the hell out of here to anywhere else. Perhaps though boredom is happier. It is for foxes, or raccoons.
Now I wouldn't be bored. Now I would know too much. Now I would know.