In ten minutes he'll be home.
In ten minutes he will fill up the house with sound, and smiles, and voice.
In ten minutes, our evening together will begin.
Maybe with a bit of mowing? Rain kept Bob from getting it done last weekend, and now it is SO tall. Getting his Sunday School lesson was a priority last weekend, too.
But, Bob frowns when he mows. He does not like to mow. That is why he had big, strong, strapping sons... But they escaped. Flew the nest.
In ten minutes, he will be hear to enjoy the doves cooing, airplanes going overhead, birds chirping. The sparrow nests in the neighbor's carport sing the full nest of babies song. Music to the cats on patrol.
In ten minutes---well, make that eight now...the distinctive sound of the Plymouth climbing the drive will draw me to the front door to hold the door, (make sure it is unlocked) and hollar whether or not I have fetched the mail. As Bob exits with brief case in hand rescued from the back seat, and the empty blue glass coffee mug still smelling sweet with coffeemate liquid dried in a puddle. With a little soaking, it will go through the next dishwasher run just fine.
In just a few minutes, Bob will be home. Wait, what yonder sound? It is the Romeo and I his Juliet.
And so, Romeo came home from the wars, and mowed the long, long grass, and lived happily ever after. That mulching blade chopped the grass in nice, short pieces!
On Saturday, my mowing man plans on another swath, and some weed eating.
And I spotted new leaves on the tree I thought had died. Maybe it did suffer from the late freeze. Bob was right again.