A radish. In the echelon of shadows that formed since dusk it looked more like the head of a mouse. Possibly a rat. Is she eating a rat? No. She bent over the wire that kept the riff raff out of her garden, and probed the dirt to release another radish. The day's sun had baked the ground to a hardness that created a light crust on top. It flaked under her nails. An earthworm, repeat customer to the garden, whorled near the strawberries. The garden was suitable. Nothing fancy, but she was proud of its healthy rows, its ready order. The shrubbery had its own language. It spoke in wagging tongues, lapped languid, lazy branches to the lawn. It needed to be punished. She tossed the radish greens, then slid on a pair of dark gloves. The hedge trimmers were oiled, glistening. She held them up, opened the blades. Her neighbor across the street only saw an elongated V cast against the fence. She liked the authority of gardening at night. She was the scheduler, the pruner, the cruncher of hairy root vegetables. Soon the rabbits would have nowhere to hide.
Sketch #2 in the Visitor's Book at an Art Gallery Series. The titles of the sketches are the notes left by the visitors.