Almost warm outside at daybreak, but I still wear a light jacket and wool hat for comfort. Slowly touring the gardens, my tea steeps in a glass pot on the kitchen counter.
Though this is a pleasure stroll, I occasionally stop and engage in my ongoing battle against the wild mustard. Last year, I noticed just a few of these cute little weeds with roundish leaves. They looked innocent enough and I ignored them. But by late spring, they revealed their true intention---now three feet tall and spreading, they had monopolized whole swatches of the back landscape.
So I’ve begun a haphazard campaign to abort this year’s crop before it flowers and seeds.
Every time I walk through the back woodland gardens, I stop to pull up four or five, or ten of the little fellas. Extracting them, roots and all, I toss them into a small pile and leave them there to melt back into the earth.
I try not to do too much. Then it would become work. Just a little here and there gives me a sense of satisfaction, and, I hope, makes some cumulative difference.
I pull a few and just keep walking. I don’t want my tea to get too strong. Or miss the best part of the day for writing.