Musty wet leaf odor fills my nose. I anticipate a sneezing fit before I”m done. Load after load of molding or crispy leaves laying since last autumn’s fall. Ninety percent oak with generous helping of maple. Salted with leaves from redbud and cottonwood. The entirety dusted with a sprinkle of cedar twigs dropped for pleasure.
I silently curse the dryads for finding it a necessity to place the dead falls a foot deep on my flower beds. It is some hours of rake and splinters and a break or two before I finally see the earth.
Previously hidden puddles seep around the fresh green that earlier today was buried under the warmth of decay. Protected from early spring’s fluctuations of temperament new growth begins.
I continue to work as damp dirt embeds the creases of my hands and gathers under my nails. The air seems suddenly hearty and gloriously fresh. My muscles move smoothly with no ache or strain.
After the chore, I lean back in a lawn chair to survey the results of my efforts. A temperate breeze alternates with sun on my face as I plot. Need a small pruning here. Reseeding there. Some bare spots require new plantings. The budding limbs of the old oak wave approval of my progress and maples whisper inspiration for future projects.
And I silently curse as I realize, I am the dryad of this urban parkland.
