Prickly Company

A patch of dry weeds by the fence decided to leave an uninvited gift on my bathrobe hem. Five fat burdock burrs, clinging to the fleece like stubborn barnacles. I ducked into the garden shed where the light is dim and nobody asks foolish questions. Setting my cold mug on a dusty flagstone, I went to work with both thumbs, peeling the spiky pests off one by one. Instead of tossing them, I mashed them together into a solid, jagged little briar ball and pressed it right against the splintery doorframe. Prickly, sour-tempered, and entirely unapproachable. Finally, some proper shed decor.