Morning GloryThe dust in the yard swirled, dancing eddied patterns on the bare earth. The breezeÕs bite was enough to make even the thickest-coated sheep huddle in the ready-made sheds we had constructed only just in time this year. Galahs perched on the rail on the wall behind the outside of our fireplace, their feathers ruffled and heads pulled low. The dogs had long since fled inside.
A single tendril of green peeked out from below the house.
ÒItÕs time,Ó my father said.
This was an annual ritual - or rather, a biannual one. Bundling ourselves up against the cold even further, we traipsed into the howling gloom beneath the house. Handful by handful we carefully tore up the morning glory.
Very soon a large mound of discarded vine was on the weighted plastic outside. The sweet stench of the sap was heavy in the air, even with the wind. Carefully we wrapped up the weed, sealing it tightly, tying it down, and leaving it in the middle of yard to stew, if the breeze would let it. I