Father

"Yeah?" is how Lawrence greeted the stranger at his door. "Father Nature," said the older gentleman on the stoop, "here to talk about the right mess you've made of things as custodian of this little patch of earth." "Are you from the council?" Lawrence asked, irritated, "'cause I've had no notice and you can't come in without formal no---." Father Nature made a gesture with his right hand and the words stopped coming out. "No, and no need for formal notice," he explained. "Mother and I have had just about enough of you lot. We're currently of a mind to raze this rubbish pile to the ground and spruce the area up with a pair of badgers and some fruit trees." He gestured again and Lawrence could speak (which took a hot minute, because of the tingly white-bright panic). "I haven't tried to fool Mother Nature," was all that he could think to say, immediately regretting that his frame of reference for land conservation was a margarine commercial. Father laughed, stepping forward. "No, you haven't. You've not been secretive and that's in your favor, I suppose. I like direct dealings and clear boundaries with cards on the proverbial table. Mother's the one with it, not me." "With ... it?" Lawrence whispered, backing up as Father Nature walked in through the front door. "All of the kindness," the old gent said, closing the door behind him.