Susan LaffertyWeeds never quit. They sprout on the edges and in the thick of things.
I pull them out. Easily. Their small roots dangling with dirt. Then I cast them aside in the trash.
The next day, coming back from my walk, I check the state of the yard. Weeds. More of them.
They are relentless. Through drought and flood. In season and out of season. Crowding out the chosen plants.
The birds swoop down toward me. Splattered mud of last year’s temporary nest still stains the corner under the roof of our patio. We’ve tried to deter them. A long rope of brass bells from India hangs from a nail nearby. I watch them pull at the strands of the rope. Loudly protesting this intrusion.
They try a new location. In the opposite corner. Instinct rules and they will not be stopped. We pile something in this new spot. Our attempt at a scarecrow. We wait to see whether they’ll leave for another place.
They’re obnoxious. All the chattering and swooping makes the back patio an unpleasant experience. But I know it’s how they’re wired. It’s time for nest making. Go home.