The grass behind the house startled me today. It's growing. Normally, at the end of April, I wouldn't be surprised to see that the grass is up to its usual tricks, but less than two weeks ago everything was buried under a foot of snow. It hardly seems time yet for yard work.

Mowing the lawn isn't a task I enjoy. Cutting grass is almost as boring as watching it grow. I find the tedium is relieved somewhat by mowing in an inward spiral rather than trudging mechanically back and forth. Maybe this year I'll try mowing out from the center for a change.

After the frost last fall I sprayed the hole where the bumblebees built their nest so I won't have them to keep me interested.

At least the lawn is shrinking in back. Ever since we moved here I've carefully avoided the ferns clustered around rocks and creeping out from the edge of the woods. Mowing with the blade set high, I've knocked off most of the grass and weeds while sparing the moss which has now spread out between rocks and ferns in a cushioned carpet that doesn't require any care.

Before long we'll have nothing but a forest clearing, which will suit me.