Ancient wheels turned as the dull blade spun in noisy persistence. No living eyes witnessed the act as the Series Ninety trundled along the most efficient path to completion. One point three acres of type two grass, battered more than cut, flowed out behind the solar powered mower.

The owners had fled during the bombing, and for many years the electronic sensors had detected no grass during the wintry, low power hell of the aftermath.

When the grass returned, some time after the passing of the snows, the corroded relays inside the mower’s brain had tripped with an audible snap.

The house, slowly collapsing into a heap of vine tangled ruin, would someday be yard to be mowed perhaps. No people lived here, nor anywhere on the newly green Earth.

The cracked, bleeding rechargeable batteries took the mower only three feet a day now. Soon the mower would rest forever.