It's Spring.

Dear Men,

You are bringing me down, a bit, today.  I know my feelings are nothing but my own, and you, Men, are what you are, but....

The whole place has been buzzing and hopping and blooming.  It has only just awaken from winter dormancy; the grasses and forbs just long enough to make wind wolves, and a few things bold enough to blossom are visited by finch and butterfly, and the insects are groggily wobbling out of holes they have spent the cold months in, and Mr. Bun (a cottontail of my acquaintance that lives up under the Cottage in the Pines) is nibbling here and there soft tender blades, and you?  What are you doing?  You are cutting, and mowing, and tilling, and scraping it all down with your horrible two stroke motors.  I can hear you from all points of the compass, revving up to mow down all of Spring's nascent bloom.

Every year, it is the same from you.   The plants grow, and you rush out to cut them, or even spray them down.  Yes, you are bringing me down, a bit, today, Men.  You are bringing me down.