Sitting on the small bench on my next door neighbor’s front lawn, I let myself relax after hauling clippings from two juniper bushes and a shrub which I do not have a name for, but which does burst forth faster than the others even if there has not been enough rain. This kind of physical work drains me completely, so there I sat, letting the warm breeze wrap around me and brush my cheeks coquettishly while the sun lit up the remainder of the day. I watched the branches of the tall old Silver Maple trees across the street as the leaves bent backwards in the wind, one of those signs that rain is coming.
The massive grey cumulous clouds pulling into port sent me to winding the long electrical cord and picking up the hedge trimmer and putting them back into the garage. I added the small hand clipper to its indoor shelf and swept the cuttings along the walk. Then I took a plastic snow shovel which held a lot more than either my two hands or the dust pan could and deposited the contents into the trash tub.
The assorted clippings filled the trash bin 2/3 to capacity and I added branches of a wild rose that caught hold in the crusty ground behind the house. One of the thorns snagged my arm and a trickle of blood ran through the coat of detritus that my skin wore as the hedge trimmer scattered bits and pieces of all it sliced.
The groundhogs had disrupted the soil around the back of the house behind the tall statue of St. Therese that I planted there sixteen years ago, so when I went into the house to slosh down some water, I grabbed a bag of pistachio shells and poured them into the dug out areas. Probably a bit more disagreeable underfoot than soft dirt.
That was enough for one day and the rain had not begun, but I was done and in need of a nap.