After Mowing

The birds nesting in the rafters of the front porch roof think this metal flower by the front steps is a perfect lookout and landing station. It's somebody new this year. I had wrens in the rafters the two years before this.

The garden is bursting with life these days and the time for the first garden defining meadow mowing had arrived.

I don't have a lawn mower.

I have a weed whacker.

I don't whack the weeds though. I whack a path through them.

The shrinking Great Lawn is the biggest open space.

It was time. The Rider on the Lawn was about to disappear.

The first mowing completely changes the character of the garden.

The plants have changed too.

The first mowing is the official end of spring.

The 80 degree temps we have been having this week hinted that as well.

I wander freshly mowed paths.

Seeing that color blue I imagined a decade ago.

Oh yes, I remember the Goldenrod reduction plan. Time to edit.

I wander ever so slowly at the end of the day. Pulling. My entire walking apparatus is exhausted after climbing mountains all day.

I wander in, pulled by a garden in a brand new character. I edit. I sit. I ponder an aging walking apparatus.