"Yeah, we call them 'greserts' now, kinda kissed the words "green" and "desert" together; 'cause it's what they are to bees. I wanna be sweeter to our little honey makers, give them some nectar to enjoy."
He was bent low over the grass, the batch of weed-killing poison in one hand and the sprayer in the other. As he watched the drops enter the soil he pondered a radio show, one about how there were less bees. "Whatever could it be?" he wondered, "where have all the bees gone?" Then he straightened up, and surveyed the perfect green lawn with a smile, "That'll make the neighbours happy," he thought, forgetting the radio show for a moment, "those pesky daisies, buttercups and dandelions won't have a chance now!"
The dandelion has a boldness that Orin just didn't care for. It was too tall, too yellow and in the wrong damn place. It was his lawn and what on earth did that flower think it was doing there? He wanted green, he'd planned for green and he was going to get perfect, even, uniform green. In two strides he was at the brash flower and he leaned down faster than a clockwork soldier to pluck it. As the stem snapped, juicy and dripping, he cursed himself. Beneath that soil were roots, now he'd have to fetch his shovel and make even more mess in his otherwise manicured lawn.
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