STINGER
He drank in the cigar smoke deep into his nostrils. The stogie reeked that acrid yet sweet smell that emanated from the dried, rolled Cuban tobacco. He wasn't the smoker, but he had been there before.
Crisp elm leaves that curled before accepting the radiant heat, but somehow defying the good burn, they weren't quite as bad as their wood, but their incomplete burning left the same kind of hint of pleasure, but leftovers, like all leftovers fell short. Anticipation was many times better than reality anyway, he supposed.
But that's what got him through the drudgery of Spring yard work. Left over late autumn leaves rotting away in part through the Winter only to be torched in April. Determined to hang on, they'll make it difficult. They won't go without a rebellion. Some swirl away with a gust of wind, but those were the ones, the few on top. The rest were way too decomposed to take flight.
Their once brilliant oranges and yellows had been reduced to a pile on, hang on state where familiarity bred security. They had quite simply formed a line of demarcation. Twigs and broken branches. moss, lichen, and what can only be described as mung commingled forming a glob of yard waste. Refuse that refused to leave their domain.
But soon it would be denouement for the yard worker. When all the raked up leftovers would be in flames. Smolder if they must, but some would go willingly and the flame would burst high and emit a stinky phosphorescent hue that would go though all phases from ignition to a long slow burn that lingers, that hovers.
That will get even with the smoker of stogies. At least twice a year it's payback time. For those cigars. "I may throw some old rags on the fire, just for good measure," he thought.
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