There has been just enough rain this spring to keep the lawns lush without hauling out the sprinklers. The green plushness is very inviting, and tries to seduce me into lounging on it, but I resist, knowing that it is full of ticks and various insects whose bites leave itchy welts. The lawn is full of lime disease! The birds do their best to keep it safe, but there are not enough of them to consume every small but deadly morsel. All the placid afternoon, they peck away, but I know that countless creatures yet lurk in that dense growth. But it would be so nice to nap there, while the dappled shade of the mulberry tree glides east and the denser shadows of the pines slowly lengthen. Instead, I watch the sky from a chair as the white clouds turn evening silver, then darken to dusky steel blue. Affixed to the gable end of the house across the street is a fake owl, intended I think to keep birds from the garden, and at a particular time the late sunlight shines through its amber eyes, making them glow with faux-demonic light. I wonder if the birds it fails to repel are as amused by the sight as I am?