Two o’clock, Friday afternoon.
Sun warms the patio stones
for the first time in months
winks through the choking gray.
Bipeds and quadrupeds that have
drooped and drooled from
cooped-up madness, squint.
Compelled by Spring’s sharp arrival
I wrangle the chaise lounge from the shed
–evict its winter residents
which scurry back to black–
and snuggle in a warm puddle of light.
Sam stretches out beside me unbothered
by new heat on thick fur.
Sunshine smoothes my winter ridges;
tension drops and pools around me on the stone
oozes into moss-filled cracks.
The book in my hands fails to captivate
my head lolls…
Within minutes the symphony begins.
A lawnmower orchestra fills the air
— distinct pitches, chequered rhythms, textured keys–
a John Deere harmonizing to a Toro. Quick succession
of starts, then syncopated fullness until
the leaf-blower solo soars above it all.
Sam and I don’t mind today; take in the din
pick out the tinkling of the chimes
hanging from the maple
the descants of tits who, undeterred,
add their voice to this free