Weather-wise, Sunday evening was a perfect night. The afternoon thunderstorms had blown through much earlier than usual, so the sky was nearly cloudless and the humidity relatively low. The dogs and I were out on the back patio fighting over the two chairs [whoever got up to get a drink or chase a squirrel lost his/her place until someone new got up to sniff the bushes or check the time]. At one point, I tried to shove Bug off, but all he would do was collapse even deeper into the cushion and flash his white belly to be rubbed. So I went inside and got the
camera. The evening light sparkled on the smooth, green, very long grass blades, and I wanted to see if I could capture the moment.
When I saw the picture above, I thought immediately of the Francisco Goya painting
The Third of May.
On Monday afternoon, the Hurley Men, who service my lawn, came with their big mowers and "executed" that defiant grass with its revolutionary agenda—just as Napoleon's troops did the Spanish rebels in the painting. But I know all of those individual blades, mulched and crisping in the hot sun, have become martyrs who inspire the survivors to challenge my oppression, rise up over ankles and the concrete patio edge, and shout, "It's a good thing you don't live in a neighborhood with a homeowners association!"
