A Patch of thick, Green grass next to the Septic Tank stalled my lawn mower. I tilted the mower up so that the blades were exposed and began to peel the globs of compressed cud from the insides of the machine.

Of course I worried what would happen if the machine were to somehow start itself again. There would be no time for me to pull my hand away before the blades sliced off my fingers.

It didn’t stop me from reaching along side the metal blades and doing what had to be done to complete the task at hand.

The sewer worries me more-- that septic tank with its black, oil like shit, baking in the hot July sun, surrounded by flying insects, salvaging what nourishment there is left in my family’s liquefied poop.

How can this be legal? I mean really, that is shit sitting right out in the open.

Sure there are no turds or toilet paper after it gets processed, but it’s still black.

I pulled the rip cord and that faithful old mower’s engine started with hardly an effort.

It’s the grass down here that is so hard to mow, the think green stuff.

The rest of the yard is easy. It’s like I’m on autopilot, one leg after another, up and down in perfect parallel lines. I get inspiration for my stories while mowing the lawn, except when I get down here at the edge of the yard.

Watch out, I’m going to go over the thick green patch fast so that I don’t stall the mower again.

Can you hear me? Stand back!

Opps!

Sorry about that.