I spent a lot of time this week tromping along behind this little machine here. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp.
It’s a little machine, isn’t it?
Compared to all this yard?
This is the orchard, and in case you miss the topography for all the lush vegetation, that there is a hill. I didn’t miss it. Though I wished I could have.
(That’s The Baby Nickel down yonder, fiddling with the gas tank. Mr. Handsome is convinced that he’s going to the the one to blow himself up, the way he’s drawn to gasoline and tanks.)
And that wooden structure there (the beginnings of a fort—use your imagination) is close to the ground on the one end. It doesn’t move when you hit it. With your head.
I have several days off before I have to do it all over again.