The ligustrum has a fungus on its old bark. The tentacles of ivies have embraced the cottage out back. An old Bird of Paradise has grown so tall that it rivals the height of the power pole out on the corner. A kudzu spirals around its thick stalk, choking that famous beak of a bloom.
Birds screech in gossipy symphony as they dive for the cherries on the hedge. With yell and gawk they swoon in chatter, dining on the delights of delicate, rotting berries.
Bees frenzy themselves into a state of panic as they zip through the rays of the sun looking for a petal to rest on.
No-see-ums nip on you as you stroll the property.
And there, at that broken front gate (crowded by grass that has grown ankle deep) purple shamrocks and green daisies peek through the green, basking in the yellow sun for as long as they can….I tread timidly as I step through them to reach the front door so as not to crush a single one of them.
A random dandelion roars before shaking its mane, sending pellets of feathery petals into the wind. They shimmer like faeries out of the corner of my eye.
This little acreage is plush with tales told by tiny insects, petite flowers, gabby warblers, and gargantuan trees. And I can hear all of their stories just as plain as day.
There is no question about it.
Welcome to Honeychurch.
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