yard work

It's a yard work kind of day: breezy and warm enough, but not too--the first day without rain in at least a week--and a Saturday to boot. I hear mowers and trimmers and neighbors discussing mulch. So I look past the leaves newly shed by the neighbor's blasted pin oak, past the dandelions that have commandeered the cracks, and set out on my bike again.

Half a mile down the road, where I know the houses but not the neighbors, a dark-headed boy, maybe six, maybe seven, asks me a question from the top of the concrete drive:

"Could you please stop?" I notice his younger companion and her acoustic guitar, and I can't think of a reason to say no. As he shows me where to park my bike I look up to the picture window with an, "I am not a crazy person and your kid asked me to stop" expression, or at least I try. It seems these kids been spending some time undoing the landscaping by painting a selection of stones.

"Would you like a free painted rock?" I can't think of a reason to say no. The girl puts down her guitar, adjusts her hearing aid, and shows me what they've done, save the big one that's for grandma. I ask for a butterfly-ed rock that will fit in my pocket, and they are adorably pleased.

"Thank you for using our service," the boy says in farewell. He is surely welcome.