The three day rain has ended for now, yet the leaves continue to drip- a light patter becomes staccato as a breeze rustles through. I have clothes to dry before the next deluge makes it impossible. The reprieve also allows me to scan the yard to see what forays the jungle has made into my garden. It is a formidable interloper which respects neither property nor life.
From across the wall, marauding creepers advance into my beds. They sling out their tendrils, winding around the stems of my plants, dragging down these innocent victims, unfolding their leaves, to steal the precious sunlight. This is when the dove activist protests in support of the undergrowth.
“The flowers have no more rights to the garden than the vines or weeds. They too are part of nature. Give peace a chance!”
Yeah, yeah, I note her presence, consider her advice but don’t follow it- I think she’s just being lazy. Over the past few years I have become hawkish about these monsoon transgressions. I grab up those bad boys by the fistfuls, rip out their roots and throw them back into the jungle.