Grasscutter’s Symphony

Grasscutter’s Symphony

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
open-air concert.

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