Tufts of grass, pushed through the mulch, move in the pre-storm breeze.
Two rabbits engage in an awkward game of tag.
The bees play with my garden of purple wild flowers and dandelions. I am proud of myself for not squealing and going inside.
I enjoy a light-roast and rest on a new-to-me chair, unraveling wicker poking my skin.
I slip on my Bearpaws and head out to the fresh air.
Beautiful bug filled bits of earth reveal various states of vegetation — bald patches next to tufts on top of ant hills that probably exceed the cities 7 inch grass height rule that welcomes a $150.00 fine. But I love the little purple flowers that are probably weeds, and am sure my neighbors curse me as they write a check to the pesticide company that keeps the purple out of their green every year.
I mow for the first time this year, mourning the decapitated dandelions now scattered, never to reach the destiny of fuzzy white, delight-bringing puffs of summer exhales.