assignment 8, There are No adverbs in my yard.

I did not go to the local cafe. Oh I would like to. But with kids and one in potty training relapse, no chance.
But I did something good. I went outside. Okay not close. There’s no new people here, and opportunities for a barrista fight suck here.
Anyway, no adverbs and in the moment, here we go.
B’s on his tricycle and ignoring his pedals, using his feet to move him. T sweeps dirt with a bright yellow broom. The broom handle has been broken off and is 12 inches long. The top 2/3 quarters of the handle wrapped in duct tape.
The broom was a house broom years ago, but the kids played with it in cruel ways that reduced it to a nub. I tried to patch the two sides with duct tape but it wiggled under my pressured sweep and the tape came loose and it lay fallen apart. Like a runner who is told they can run again after a severe accident and halfway into the race the bone splits.
My husband fumed when he saw the pieces, his voice gnarled, “Throw it out.”
But when he was not looking, I carted it  to an obscure place on the back patio.
She sweeps the dirt into a matching yellow dustpan.
B has a stubby wood chip the length of a cell phone. He pokes the flowers while saying, “Clip.” He continues clipping all the flowers this way. He goes up to me and puts the wood chip up to my fingernail and “Clip.”
T still sweeps. She sits on the concrete, her knees crooked up and her head leans on her shoulder. Other times her head tilts on the other side. After she finishes one area she drags herself across the pavement. It takes a while to get to the 12 inches of space.
B gallops down the grassy hill. His arms follow behind him like a soaring bird. As he sings and it is a small sound like little bells.
T pours her dirt in a bed that once had flowers in it. Now it has dirt and that’s all. The kids love it.
She dips her dustpan in and scoops.   She stands up.  She holds out her hand and pours. The dirt lands and dust rises and forms a billowy cloud around her.

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