A puff of blue smoke came out of the little exhaust pipe.

He stepped down into the steep ditch and started cutting a rough path through the tall grass.

I stood at the edge of the gravel driveway, pulling thick vines of bindweed off the wooden mailbox post with my bare hands.

The white farmhouse sat completely dark at the end of the long driveway.

The front windows reflected the bright orange summer sunset.

I threw a handful of torn vines into the ditch.