The Weed Whacker

To hide from the hot summer sun, my dog and I sit down beneath a maple tree.  My young dog, still a furry toddler, gives a few half-hearted tugs on her leash.  Sensing finally that I am serious about my sitting, she lays herself down at my feet.

I sense the Dryad within the tree behind us is aware of our presence.  After a quick hello to us, she returns to her blissful gathering of information from the other trees around her via her wind-whispering leaves above and her deep earth-burrowing roots below. Resting beneath her friendly shade of leaves, I almost slip into a dream.

Suddenly, a startled bird cries out with two surprising human-like screams, as my neighbor begins weed whacking his small kingdom next door.  My dream hastily fades away, replaced by the grinding, tearing noise of the weed whacker ripping at the green grass.

My dog, unable to contain her boredom any longer, tugs at her leash, wandering off in search of a new adventure as she drags me along in her wake.

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