THAD DEVASSIE

Brownskeeper

The reaper tended his property with a browner-than-usual thumb bone. His lawn was no lawn at all, just barren soil. He would scour the hardened landscape and dirt clods for any signs of growth, often kneeling to look for the slightest germination of seed. Nope. Nothing. It is not easy to exterminate every sign of life, especially those pesky weeds. But when he was on his game it brought a gaping and toothy smile to his skull, and you’d see that spring in his step as he high-fived that long dead Rose of Sharon near the front porch, its brittle limbs and twig-like fingers free of foliage as he slinked back into the house.