I put the burr under my own saddle. It irritated me until I planted the crab apple tree on my way down to the barn yesterday morning. Putting one's deficiencies down in print is a terrific goad to get-'er-done!
Finishing with the goats, I sat in the sun and finished Shantaram. It took the author thirteen years to write the book, and I think we were both glad when he was done. There were moments of absolute glory, and then times when I felt I was drowning in a sea of similes. Fifteen or more "as" or "like" on a page will do that.
Another gorgeous day, so back to the garden...trip after trip taking the mountains of pulled weeds out to the burn pile, and then pulling more. There was a sense of smug satisfaction as I passed The Tree time and again, and then looking back at the cleared ground. Today I'm looking for the liniment bottle.