My lawn spoke to me the other day. At least, I think it did. I was sitting on the porch having my morning coffee when I heard a low moan coming from the ground before me.
“Thirsty grass,” it whispered with scratchy sibilance.
The lawn did look like it could use a drink. We are in the midst of the worst Western drought in nearly 1,200 years, so I haven’t turned on the sprinklers in a few weeks. I suddenly felt bad for the patchy brown lawn — the only sad yard on the whole majestically fecund block. I picked up the hose and gave it a squirt of cool water.
