In the Playground

           Jackcameoutontotheporch,tuggingthetabofhiszipperupunderhischin,blinkingintothebrightair.Inhislefthandhewasholdingabattery-poweredhedge-clipper.Hetuggedafreshhandkerchiefoutofhisbackpocketwithhisrighthand,wipedhislipswithit,andtuckeditaway.Snow,theyhadsaidontheradio.Itwashardtobelieve,eventhoughhecouldseethecloudsbuildinguponthefarhorizon.

           Hestarteddownthepathtothetopiary,switchingthehedge-clipperovertotheotherhand.Itwouldn’tbealongjob,hethought;alittletouch-upwoulddoit.Thecoldnightshadsurelystuntedtheirgrowth.Therabbit’searslookedalittlefuzzy,andtwoofthedog’slegshadgrownfuzzygreenbonespurs,butthelionsandthebuffalolookedfine.Justalittlehaircutwoulddothetrick,andthenletthesnowcome.

           Theconcretepathendedasabruptlyasadivingboard.Hesteppedoffitandwalkedpastthedrainedpooltothegravelpathwhichwoundthroughthehedgesculpturesandintotheplaygrounditself.Hewalkedovertotherabbitandpushedthebuttononthehandleoftheclippers.Ithummedintoquietlife.

           "Hi,Br’erRabbit,"Jacksaid."Howareyoutoday?Alittleoffthetopandgetsomeoftheextraoffyourears?Fine.Say,didyouheartheoneaboutthetravelingsalesmanandtheoldladywithapetpoodle?"

           Hisvoicesoundedunnaturalandstupidinhisears,andhestopped.Itoccurredtohimthathedidn’tcaremuchforthesehedgeanimals.