High on Grass
A few days ago my wonderful niece in Cincinnati sent me the following text message at 6:29 p.m.: “Sitting on the back porch, enjoying the cool of the evening, the birds and squirrels, the fish and frogs, the breeze bringing in the scent of the freshly moon grass. How’s your day going?”
“Moon grass, huh?” thought I. “Is that like bluegrass, crabgrass, fescue? Is there ‘Martian’ grass on Mars? Did she have two cases of ‘Blue Moon’ iced down for the Super Bowl?” At 6:32 p.m. I received another message: “Mown grass . . . not moon.”
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