spring and the little man in my garden

The William Shakespeare Mulberry is weeping quietly in my yard. I pruned him up this spring – cut him deep. Remnants of the past summer of his hairy dreams litter a sunken brick path now, and the little man who lives in my garden picks through the detritus. He is saying, 'tut, tut' like so much illusive Poo. The little man has been busy. How can someone so diminutive pack such a virulent punch? He is crooked from bending and creeping beneath the undergrowth, though at this early stage of the growing season he is fairly easy to spot. I can stand inside the picture window and see him easily as he sows his weed seeds like the curses that spew from his foul imp lips.

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Yesterday I pulled binoculars from my closet to spy upon the circling hawks. They were hovering in packs over the near wooded lots of neighboring avenues. Toby stood against the window, thinking maybe I had spotted that rabbit he so doggedly pursues. I caught him lying on his side peering beneath the shed. Was he hoping the rabbit would come out to play? Probably not, as he oftentimes looks out the dining room window and menacingly growls at the fur-tailed rodent while it sups on shoots outside the front door. Fur-tailed indeed; but I would wear its lucky foot around my belt if I could catch it nibbling the shrubs down to a nub over the long winter dearth.

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Today I will throw the trimmings on a fire and let the strong west winds carry the smoke away. I'll carve out another bed, lay the foundations of a short walking path leading from the fence to our short plank deck and try not to let the gruff rumblings of the little man who lives in my garden ruin a sunny day. The crisp air will cool my exertions while the wind cracklin blaze might muffle idle exacerbation from a gnome who dislikes fecund pleasantries. It's spring – bring it on.