Under the sun

I have a plot of ground, fenced against deer and rabbits. The land faces south, on a gentle slope. The earth is gray clay, and I’m suspicious of it. A heavy dump truck brought a pile of compost to the base of the plot, and I’ve been shoveling it into a wheelbarrow, ‘barrowing it up the hill, and spreading it over my future garden.

I find it hard exercise. I like it. Spring seems early this year and I sweat. My neck burns from the sun. There are sharp, unusual pains between my shoulders when I rest before bed, reading with my back pillowed against a wall.

I saw a video of the Speaker of the House of Representatives mowing his lawn. I’m not the only one who likes to get out in the yard, for one reason or another.

I hear the Affordable Care Act is embarrassingly successful. I signed up at once, myself, and save quite a bit of money for having done so.

I guess a lot of folks don’t think the Crimea should really belong to Russia. There have been some boats and planes going down. A lot of us remain surprised how well the global economy functions on currencies with no intrinsic value at all.

My gray clay is going to take some fixing, I think. I spread a thick layer of compost over it, then cover that with a deep layer of straw. I’ll sprinkle the layers once in a while this summer – infrequently, water’s running low. This winter it will rain. Inevitably, the mulch will rot into the clay. Next February or March, I’ll plow it all under and do it again.


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