She started, purred, and obeyed. And with her assistance I expanded what had been a mere patch of lawn into a rolling yard, bordered by old lilacs and new raspberries. Together we ravaged hummocks and were occasionally thwarted by a hidden protrusion of ledge. Gasoline smelled sweet again, as it's supposed to. We made winding paths, to the garden and to the woodyard.
Maine is a great place for yard work.
But it seems only sensible to pause a moment when your blood's hot, your face flushed, your head clear, your surroundings natural. Besides, my pauses advance dividends far richer than their simple remedial function. During pauses in yardwork, I find, one's attention is chiefly drawn up or down, toward light or shadow. Had I not leaned on my rake that once, I'd have missed that peregrine falcon fluttering so close, southbound. Had I not paused just then, I'd not have noticed that amazing concentration in so tiny an area of so many types of mushroom.