Rabbit Flashing

I mow with the sole intent of keeping a jungle from springing up over night. I mow to warn the rest of the yard not to grow so fast and maybe, just maybe, I might not get to it for another week or so. Grass intimidation, my stock in trade.

The rabbits are out and dashing around in that kamikazi way that field rabbits in these parts do. The farmer behind us, not Farmer John but his neighbor, had plowed his fields and the seagulls were thick and white across it like a crop in bloom. The field in front of the house was plowed a week or so ago and the eagles have been diving that field for the rabbits.

I mowed in front of the barn today in that shady spot that sends up grass so thickly I feel as if I need a machete to deal with it properly. I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing low rise cargo pants to mow in. On the outset this seemed like a rational choice. I would not be sweating at the waistband and small of my back as I do when mowing in jeans. It was not so warm that shorts are an option and capri length cargo pants seem to meet the delicate balance of heating and cooling that mowing in mid March demands.

The sun is out and the wind was light. I was mowing and the kids each had a fresh bottle of bubbles to tease the Dog with. The Dog was running in circles. She was desperate to catch the bubbles and make her Her Children were where she could properly watch them and it seemed a mutually exclusive task. Finally, she concentrated on the Verbalist when the Muralist and the Littlest began to follow my perambulations around the barn yard. Through the growl of the mower I could hear the Muralist sing "The Ants Go Marching" at the top of her lungs. The verses were nonsensicle in a Carrollian fashion. She would sing one by one or two by two but the ants would slam a shoe or make some goo. By the time fives came round the ants "Miled a Pive". The Littlest just inserted random shreiks of ANTS! to the musical arias behind me. By eight the Muralist had grown bored with shrinking circles of lawn and peeled off to hit pine cones with sticks. The Littlest followed.

It was just as well, I was beginning to have problems with the cargoes. They were slipping dangerously low and taking the bikini underwear with them. If I were willing to take my hands off the mower I could hitch them up, but the mower has a engine choke bar because it it self propelled. If I took my hands from the mower I would have to start it again and I hate pulling the starter cord. So I waited until the last minute and just as I was about to stop my pants fell and a stealth dry rose bramble kicked up and swatted my now exposed bottom. It was the most rediculous thing I have experienced in a while and it was exacerbated by the impassive glance of a field rabbit sitting at the edge of the ditch.