The heavy-breasted mammatus clouds drifted over suburbia, sagging low in their nurturing way, all grey and worrisome, but the people were so glad the hateful storm had passed that no one noticed the seeds dropping; Dandelion Yellows, Pinkist Clover, Purple-Spike Thistle, cast over the carefully manicured lawns. No one noticed, at least until the next morning when the weeds began to spring forth with all the joy and vigor infused in their happy little petals by the sensuousness of the sky the night before. Squinting in the first glaring light of morning, Mandevilla backed out of her garage and a mask of sour-milk face leapt instinctively from the center of her brunette head. They must go, those invasive weeds! Just one more thing on her Eradicate-This! list for the day. She slammed her sunglasses on her face and machine-gunned the red SUV toward the highway. A giggle slipped from the garage in the corner where windshield washer fluid, weed killer and bleach stood in neatly aligned bottles. Bougainvillea stood still in the ceramic pot along the sidewalk, witness to it all. As the sun rose higher a breeze came too and she willed her dainty petals of melon softness to fall and blow, like summer drifting snow, across the drive and into the grass. Oh, the tales of woe they told to the Dandelion Yellows, who sprang forth in white seeds of indignation, whispering in song to the Pinkist Clover who shared the sad news with the Purple-Spike Thistle. Each joined in the singing with Bougainvillea’s blossoms, propagating seeds, crying out to the mother mammatus, now blown far away, sweet tears shed for a life-time as they swirled and twirled in the breath of the afternoon. The wings on which they had flown the night before left behind to scatter their progeny across those perfected lawns.
© Jilly’s Silly bit o’ fiction.