The scent of new-mown grass and lawnmower oil. The sound of traffic, dogs that yap somewhere, she’s not sure where. Birds shriek anger at her noise, but hey, she’s silent now, and squirrel paws pit-patter in the bush.
The warmth of sunlight; wonders if she’ll burn her nose again and feels annoyed; it’s only spring, too early to be hot. Her shadow drips its struggle on the wheels.
The feel of metal sliding, tries the screwdriver again. Then stops…
Sound of walking—man and dog; “D’you need a hand?”—of talking—man and woman let the green grass grow again.