Freshly-cut Grass

The lawn was looking unkempt. Lawn is somewhat of a misnomer. Grass is similarly inaccurate, as there’s a fair selection of clovers and other plants – okay, weeds – scattered through the kikuyu grass. But we call it the lawn because it’s the green patch near the house. A swath that stretches from the driveway to the veggie patch and from the house up the slight incline to where things get wild. We mow it with a ride on mower. When I say we, I mean Rob. That of itself is perhaps a little strange because I have a lower tolerance to the ‘lawn’ getting ragged than he does, so I nag for a few days: “The lawn needs mowing.” “Yes, almost. I’ll do it next week.” Of course, I could do it myself. But don’t.

Anyway, this story isn’t really about the split of domestic chores in this household. This story is about the lawn.

Rob mowed the grass. It looked terrific, like proper lawn. A smooth bright green wedge of it. I can’t quite reconcile how or why I prefer it to look neat. I tend to be drawn to wilder looking gardens – mass diverse plantings that tumble and mix. Flowers that spill over paths and walls. Things that self-seed in unlikely places. Curved edges softened by disorder. But I like smooth lawn. Soft under bare feet. Newly cut it gives a scent that I can only describe as grass-like, which sounds unhelpful but you know the smell I mean. I’m sure you do. It hits you in the back of the nose. It’s the smell of freshness and lazy spring days. Of children running and laughing. Of buzzing insects and chirping birds.

Or is it?

Because here’s the thing. The day after the lawn was mown, the usual morning parade of birds didn’t show up. No wrens skipped across the paving and fossicked in the ragged edges. No rosellas congregated on the grass. No honeyeaters performed aerial acrobatics as they plucked insects from the air. The magpies that have only recently become regular visitors stayed up the back of the block near the trees. The firetails were especially conspicuous by their absence. Could the two things be related, we wondered? Could the freshly mown grass be anathema to the birds? Or was it a case of correlation being mistaken for causation?

The morning after the mowing was chilly, but no more so than the previous morning, so that seemed an unlikely explanation.

The season is changing, shifting from winter to spring, but the recent trend has been for the birds to be more active, not less.

Perhaps the longer grass and those mounds of clover and weeds provided cover for the little birds as they hop and flit and find things to eat. Perhaps there were more insects in and among the taller plants. Perhaps the worms were closer to the surface in the damp shade of the clover, the beetles easier to uncover.

Over coming days, we watched the grass grow, literally. Waiting to see if as the birds would become more abundant again as the lawn grew longer.

From the outset, I was aware of the dilemma I would potentially face. If we observed a link, would I concede to unkempt lawn with the multitude of birds, or would I still want it to look neat and tidy?

After a few days, the magpies return. They cock their heads to one side and closely inspect the ground. Then jab their long beaks into the ground. Fat worms dangle momentarily before being swallowed.

Two weeks after the mowing, when clover once again mounds above the flatness of the grass, the firetails and rosellas return. The firetails – red-eared firetail finches – are seed eaters. They are very small; tiny is an appropriate word. They all but disappear by the side of a clover plant. Only their bright red backsides give them away. The rosellas too are well camouflaged against the roughness of the growing grass. The females, predominantly green, are barely visible. The males, scarlet in their spring plumage, are harder to hide, but even they find some cover in the uneven surface of the uncut grass.

Two weeks after the mowing, the wrens are still absent from the lawn. They are busy around the side of the house, dancing around in the citrus orchard and in the heavy vegetation along the creek, but I am yet to see them where the mower cut its swathe. Perhaps it is coincidental. Perhaps they are preoccupied with nest building. But I think there is a distinct possibility that the insects they like and the cover they need are no longer present in the shorter grass.

So, to mow or not?

As much as I love the look and smell of freshly cut grass, I love the presence of the birds more. If the choice is between birds or smooth lawn, the birds win hands down.

Of course, there are other considerations. As summer approaches there is the harsh reality that taller grasses present a clear and present danger in terms of fire, especially as they dry off. It’s also not just birds that find them good habitat. The slithering wildlife is much harder to see in longer grass. It doesn’t take very tall vegetation to hide a snake. As spring shifts to summer, short grass will be called for. But perhaps in the interim, as the days slowly warm, we will let the time between mowing stretch, to forgive the messy look and embrace the diversity it brings. Perhaps I will nag a little less that the lawn needs mowing.

Inside

This week I had the pleasure of meeting Yann Toussaint, anthropologist, poet and permaculture teacher. Yann and I will be in conversation at the Albany (Western Australia) library this Thursday talking all things food, farming, environment and writing. Having now met Yann, I’m really looking forward to it - we have a lot to discuss! Come along if you are anywhere in the vicinity. Paperbark Books will have copies of my book for sale afterwards.

I recorded a podcast with sheep maestro Mark Ferguson for his Head Shepherd podcast. You can listen to that here. I’ve interviewed Mark at least three times over the years, in my capacity as a rural journo. It was strange (in a good way) to be sitting on the other side of the interview table with him.

I processed some more of the mandarine haul we picked up from Della Fay Winery (and orchard) in Margaret River. Now have many jars of pickled mandarines maturing in the pantry. They promise to be just the thing on a cheese platter.

Thanks for reading,

Jill