He closes his gate, careful that the latch doesn't shut with a metallic clang.
I'd never figured him for a murderer. He's kind to his grandchildren, and is friendly to his neighbors (he even waved to me this morning).
This is the third year that I've watched him lovingly prepare his garden. First, the tilling and weeding. Using his shovel, he breaks up clumps of soil, and when satisfied that the plot is ready, he puts down a layer of hay. Making the land ready to accept seeds and seedlings is hard work.
He watches over his plants, and waters them carefully. He pulls weeds with a vengeance, wanting only his plants to get benefits from the rich soil. Soon, he'll bring out his tomato cages, willing each plant to grow within its cage as the metal supports the weight of the plants, soon heavy with fruit.
He is on a death mission.
He walks softly on the lawn, looking for movement beneath the grass. I watch him on his daily rounds - shovel at the ready, waiting for his murderous rage to overtake him.
He cares little that his intended victim is small and most likely stupid...he must die.
He raises the shovel to waist level, and slams it down on the grass. I imagine I hear a scream of pain as his victim bleeds out and takes his last, halting breath.
That mole never saw it coming.
|The killing fields|