It was a grassroots effort.
The excessive heat just made them more determined.
A small army – standing shoulder to shoulder.
As a humid breeze mingled among the little crowd, some questioned:
Do you really think we can do this? (We are measured a little short.)
Can we make any difference? (Others are less stiff in their demands.)
Though some wilted, others remained rigid – not willing to curl under the oppression.
We have no choice.
We have grown up here.
The weaker members withered.
There were cutting remarks.
We have traditionally been green.
We must stand tall.
It was true they had weeded some out – now mostly a homogeneous nature.
Watered by despair, the seed of a plan grew.
Did they have the resiliency to nurture it?
Some wavered: limp.
With the sunrise, the baking heat promised to punish them again.
Glaring. Scorching. Drying.
Energy draining with every minute.
Each feeling a little more brittle.
Anxiety level rising.
The glare of the sun revealing just what a ragged bunch they had become.
Could they make it another day?
Then, what they had been waiting for: the door opened.
Now, their chance to be heard!
Stiffening, they stood side by side.
Single minded in purpose.
Each blade of grass summoned its last bit of chlorophyll.
The lawn, in unison, screamed:
“Hey, we are dying here.
Turn on the sprinkler!”
Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge