Removing burs from under our ...

Several days ago the township mowed the road's shoulders. Unfortunately, their mower was set too high  and the mowing date was too late to eliminate the sandburs growing at the road's edge along our property. This would be of limited concern except that we walk our dogs along that edge and they don't know enough to not step in or on the sandburs.

Sandbur (Cenchrus longispinus)

Photo by J. Harrington

Last year we mowed the offending strip with the tractor and mower deck, discharge chute pointed toward the road, so that passing tires could pick up the burrs. This year there's a mulching kit on the mower deck so burrs would remain in place if we tried that approach. Instead, we used our new self-propelled push mower, set on bagging option, and, when done, dumped the bag's contents into our fire pit. We even went so far as to use a vacuum to clean the remaining burrs from the interior of the bag. The fewer burrs spread around, the fewer sandbur plants next year.

Was it worth the extra effort? On the one hand, we didn't use herbicide. and we think we collected more than 90% of the visible burrs. On the other hand, we haven't walked the dogs along that edge since we've mowed it. Plus, we won't really know how well it worked until next year, when we get to see if there's a notable decrease in sandbur plants. Of course, next year, if we remember to mow in mid-July instead of early August, we might not see any burrs at all. The dogs won't have to hobble and we won't have to remember to keep a pair of needle-nose pliers in our pocket during August and September. Stay tuned for updates. 

By the way, if you're wondering about the difference between bur and burr, go here.

Please Don't

By Tony Hoagland

tell the flowers—they think

the sun loves them.

The grass is under the same

simple-minded impression

about the rain, the fog, the dew.

And when the wind blows,

it feels so good

they lose control of themselves

and swobtoggle wildly

around, bumping accidentally into their

slender neighbors.

Forgetful little lotus-eaters,

solar-powered

hydroholics, drawing nourishment up

through stems into their

thin green skin,

high on the expensive

chemistry of mitochondrial explosion,

believing that the dirt

loves them, the night, the stars—

reaching down a little deeper

with their pale albino roots,

all Dizzy

Gillespie with the utter

sufficiency of everything.

They don't imagine lawn

mowers, the four stomachs

of the cow, or human beings with boots

who stop to marvel

at their exsquisite

flexibility and color.

They persist in their soft-headed

hallucination of happiness.

But please don't mention it.

Not yet. Tell me

what would you possibly gain

from being right?

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