The poplar seeds, airborne fluff
Descend from an unidentified source
Intermittent fuzz, blowing on eddies and streams of air
Drop down loosely and then lift again briefly
As if they were destined both to procreate and predisposed to amuse.
In the near distance a four-cycle engine snarls to life, interrupting the sanctuary of my reverie.
A friend of my neighbor drives the mowing machine through the backyard.
Moments before I saw him unload it off the trailer hooked to his truck. I think he is a fire department buddy. A younger guy, he has stopped by on colder occasions to help move snow.
A nice guy. A nice gesture. A nice narrative.
I wondered if he gets paid, allowing myself snooping privileges. A beer, a twenty?
His first pass around the yard yields mixed results: The dandelions are downed but only “a bit off the top” for the rest.
“Lower your blade,” I hear myself mumble, critically.
It will be my turn to mow soon enough and I want him to cut deep to delay my need to mow.
My mower is an electric push device, and it is not much fun to run. That’s the push part.
Dragging long snakes of extension cord. That’s the pull part.
Good for the environment, no exhaust fume, I thought, back-patting.
Get a bit of exercise; I rationalized, belly-patting.
Gad! I realize, pity-patting.
Nothing much good will come of all this, I thought, again waxing judgmentally,
Beginning to feel the drawdown of this familiar process
Fraught with self-criticism and burdened with the irony of drifting once again into
The oncoming lane of judgment. Here comes the judge! Here comes the judge!