Contrary. Sunshine springtime, how glorious. This evening I’ll unspool the hose and twizzle its nozzle to drench rockery, fretful sproutlings, seeds, wildflower experiment, weary pot-dwellers. Hardly worth winding it back, this dry spell persists. Meanwhile: must kill the weeds. Mixing poison, pumping handle bites my palms and trigger finger spray, fatal drizzle for audacious opportunists. I watch them wither. Also, there, on the margin, the edge of temporary civilisation. That one. Staging-post for displaced ladybirds and greenest beetles. Are you invading or did I put you there? Earn your place or die in the green bin, collected every other Monday.
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