The glossy glow of growing grass, an oval amongst bricks and roads and suburbia, is the groundskeeper’s misfortune. The season has changed and with it the grass now sprouts new blades with an unbridled enthusiasm with which a lawn mower’s schedule simply can not compete.

The slim sprouts from grass seeds are an invitation. Invitation to the school children, the picnickers, the passers-by. Bikes charge bravely across the green surface with a soft crunch.

A young man sits tree-side, basking in the spotted light beneath baby leaves. A small collection of bags and belongings encircle him and mark his territory as removed from that of the ordinary park visitor; his shirt, a guitar case, a backpack. He might be handsome but his comfort deflects the eyes of observers for fear of intrusion, or offence, or the off chance that he may leap forward and ask for the precious dollar that was being saved to pay for parking.

Should one not divert their gaze to the dandelion weeds sprouting from between the cracks of the footpath on just the other side of the road, one might be blinded by the glare of the sun as it bounces from the face of a wristwatch. One might mistake it for the glare of lingering dew on glossy growing glass.