Sunday morning sunbeams slant through the green of the trees that line the ravine. As I watch, mug of half-caff in hand, the sun climbs above the barn roof, flooding the newly shorn meadow with light.
My gaze lingers on the sprawl of pale peonies in the rough garden strip edging the drive, then continues up the lane.
Our neighbor has planted a garden, long and narrow, bordering the lane just before it curves to plunge past the pond and then up to the road.
There seems to be a tall man standing in the garden, his back to our house!
I add more cream to my coffee, pour some for the cats clamoring at my feet.
I consider mentioning the man--who still stands unmoving.
A snatch of conversation overheard yesterday, tugs at my sluggish morning mind--our son arriving with the announcement that neighbor J. P. and his household are constructing a scarecrow.
Our neighbor, J. P. is a good steward of his property. His barns are painted, gates and fences are straight, posts are topped with hand crafted bird houses; the double doors fronting his workshop are decorated with a collection of small signs, vintage license plates. hubcaps. Some of his displays leave no doubt as to his political allegiance!
He keeps the grass cut along the lane, rearranges the gravel displaced by a hard rain.
Driving in from errands later in the day we had a better view of the man in the garden.
I was intrigued enough to walk back with my camera the better to appreciate the finer details.
The 'scarecrow' has been cleverly fashioned as a homespun replica of its maker, down to the rusty beard, battered hat and work-worn jeans.
Note the wooden hand clutching a drink can, the package of 'smokes' tucked into the pocket of the faded denim shirt.
Its taking a few days to become accustomed to the 'man in the garden.'
We hope the summer sun and rain will beat gently on this fine example of primitive folk art.
I expect we'll soon take his presence for granted and miss him when he seeks cover for the winter months.