Someone has been grinding up the world's largest tree all afternoon. People mow their lawns at the first hint of new growth (why?); then these same zealots begin the 24 application regimen of fertilizing their yard and polluting my water (which they also do by taking tylenol and hormones and antacids and...).
While gardening, I no longer hear just the prison loudspeakers in the exercise yard, but the framers singing to Bon Jovi on the radio as they build the house across the streeet, people somewhere in the trees sharing lewd jokes, the scrape and rattle of strollers on the street with parents talking (screaming) to each other about what to have for dinner, the back neighbor practicing his golf swing and finding golf balls near--not yet in--my yard, the air force reserve refuling tankers having more touch and go runs than usual (runway is just a few miles north).
I could just stay inside, couldn't I? But then how could I be a 31 year old curmudgeon? Some day my shrubs and trees will buffer me, hide me, protect me, envelop me, and we'll commiserate together in the solace of our smugness and absence. Until then, anyone want to go pull weeds?