100 words (more or less) · writing

Mowing

Grass, vines, clover, prickly thistle, orange jewelweed, swamp lilies, burrs, and bright-red wild strawberries grow by the river. Black wasps with long, shiny bodies circle lazily around the brambles and the buds—faeries flitting, untroubled, over this tangled mess of a kingdom. 

August is probably much too late to think of mowing this forgotten patch of land where rabbits, groundhogs, frogs, wild turkeys, and deer have made themselves at home.

I push the roaring, sputtering machine just enough to appease the neighbors—the citrusy scent of cut herbs and damp earth filling the air—and leave the rest for the inhabitants who actually live here.