Something of a behavioural oddment is lately taking place in my tiny rural neighbourhood: nobody is bothering over the leaf litter in their yards this year. One neighbour of the twenty households on my street has a manicured lawn, which is kept so as an advertisement by her eldest adult son of his lawncare service, sign and all, but every other yard - even the local police officer, even the busybodies of the village council - is a definite two inches buried with sweetgum and pin oak and American sycamore leaves.

This is, to my recollection, unprecedented. Past years, at minimum the local ordinances about yard upkeep would have fined a few people to make an example of them and force the rest in line.

Oh, mistake me not! I love it. Leaf litter is where ladybugs and lightning bugs and moth larvae keep themselves alive through the deep winter, and the slow composting restores soil that is stripped of its nutrients by ornamental grasses and non-native flowers. The fragrance is beautiful, especially after a November rain, and the crunch, crunch under my feet makes navigation go easier. The gusting winds are so much more musical with the tumbling whisper of the leaves. They mound up against the fence in my back yard, and stray neighbourhood cats frolic and pounce through the drifted heaps. It's just nice.

I can't help but speculate on the cause, though! The change is just so unanimous and unremarked. Is it that everyone just has less overall free time this year, to bother with raking? Is it a simple case of an aging populace, too many arthritic backs and shoulders to commit such energy and pain to the task? Did the entire town spontaneously become enlightened about the welfare of moths and lucky little beetles? Is this a silent collective protest against the town council and its petty bylaws?

I'm not about to risk breaking the spell, whatever caused it. Going door to door, to ask people why they haven't raked, is nosey and downright un-neighbourly, so we'll have none of it. But I'm just ghastly curious! I hope you can forgive me forwarding my curiosity to you, like some chain letter in an e-mail from your grandaunt. I reckon if I can't (oughtn't) get a real answer, then I can exorcise the craving for one, by sharing it around.

Iron Noder 2024, 20/30