Weed Hunter

A shadow across the land. A breeze of cool mist. The sound of swift feet. 

That is me, for I am the Weed Hunter. 

For too long have weeds plagued my fields. As horses rip the grass down to the dirt around them, they remain strong. I have watched them, their giant cabbage leaves making their presence had to miss. 

It didn’t have to be like this, but they gave me no choice. In the beginning, I just wanted harmony in the field. Nearly all species of plants were welcome, as long as they did not interfere with the field’s main job of growing grass. 

But the weeds were greedy. Left to their own devices, they multiplied and spread. I tried to be reasonable. I tried simpler methods – I mowed them with the tractor. They quickly returned. I tried digging them up. Their roots were so deep the field was filled with potholes. Also, they came back anyway.

It didn’t have to come to this. I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be fair. I had no choice.

With a pressurized bucket in one hand, and the sprayer in the other, I moved around the field, rooting out all of their kind. Sometimes they are small, consisting of only one or two leaves, but I know they are not the innocent plants they are pretending to be. Left alone, they become massive, covering and killing all the grass around them. They all get a squirt of justice. 

For I am the seeker of all that is good and just in the horse pasture. I am the law in a lawless field.

I am the Weed Hunter.

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