Death Count: 2

I mowed my lawn today.

This is not an action I do regularly. We have long standing stories in my family about Dad and his lawn and how long the grass grows before he mows. Extended family really, the stories are that grand and that amazing and that tall (the grass, not the tales). Let's just say that my penchant for not mowing the lawn is deeply, deeply rooted in my genetics.

The last time I mowed a lawn was for Mom and Eric. Their yard was really small, it was an easy mow. Nothing like the acre and a half of Dad's lawn.

Anyway, in an attempt not to piss off the neighbors (too much, and not past good-neighbor recovery), I borrowed Eric's lawnmower and mowed the part of my lawn that the sheep cannot reach, which is to say, my whole front yard.

The grass was high enough that, well, items can hide in the grass. Things. Nouns.

Which is to say, dead animals.

I found a small black bird early in the mowing. I'm not quite immune to death, so struggled to pick the thing up and toss it, bury it, something out of the yard. I managed to move that one.

Not the next one, though.

Can't say I'm delighted about running a lawnmower over a dead bird.

I will say that I probably need to become used to the minor deaths around here, it is a farm.