The Sunday Whirl


The crow was sitting on the old barbecue shelf, beating his wings every now and then, uttering a growl of disapproval as he paced back and forth watching me. I always thought him a friend but today he was just prowling and watching.

I have always been open about the fact I am not a gardener, certainly not the star variety where they brag about their latest hybrid tree or flower. Not at all, I just dabble in it, a slip shot method of planting a few seeds beneath tired soil that is probably thinking, “here she goes again” and accepts the folly of my efforts. Placing them carefully with absolutely no knowledge, but hoping against all odds, I’ll soon see a sprout.



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