It is so peaceful in the backyard on a Sunday morning. The birds are active, and the cars less so. I treasure the occasional moments when there is a lull in the traffic and all that can be heard are the birds. These last few mornings I have been out here even before the fountains turn on. A hummingbird will whisk over, check to see if the water is flowing yet, and jet away disappointed. She will be back; the birds love a good shower.
Not a leaf on the Lombardy poplars is stirring this morning. It is eerily still. I enjoy so much the glittering leaves in the afternoon when the breeze and the sun play with the trees. They offer our yard such a grand wall of green. Grand indeed--the only trees around. All the others are diminutive in comparison. Lately I have been careful to pull up the suckers that pop up all over our yard; they upset my husband so. That and errant dog poop on the front lawn.
The silence is disrupted for a minute by the fountain filling. After the first ten seconds the fountain base is full, causing the water to flood over the sides the remaining time.
The leaves are beginning to flutter a bit, and I feel a slight movement of breeze on my face. I try to sit here as a gracious visitor, attempting to ignore my perspective as a gardener who focuses on the spent flowers that need trimming. I suppose that is good metaphorical advice for life, particularly parenthood. A tenant in common with the flowers in my garden. Not the superintendent. But still my eyes seek out the spent petunia and vinca flowers, not content until I pick them from their perch.
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