SPRINKLER
The air hummed with the heat of summer. In the surrounding trees, fat red-breasted robins called out each other in their familiar and welcome song.
In the middle of the yard, the sprinkler slowly rotated back and forth, cascading a light pitter patter through the tree limbs above, and a slightly heavier one off the surface of the hand carved wooden chairs.
We had been sitting quietly on those chairs not too long ago, watching the swarms of flies illuminated by the sun and sipping from our perspiring glasses of iced tea.
We had planned to spend the afternoon reading but wound up settling into a familiar routine of yard work instead. We planted flowers and spread grass seed on the vacant plot where our stagnant green pool had been the year before. It had been a few hours worth of quiet, comforting work.
Now we stood by the back step, watching the diamond-like streams of water sprinkle gently to the ground. Soon there would be grass on that dark patch of earth.
There would always be another day for reading in the sun. We were in no rush.
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