Muscling the noisy machine through
the tall grass,
my bad back aching
botanical shrapnel's flying:
insects fleeing in all directions
the neighbors told me
they killed a rattle-snake yesterday
it's early July
and the heat is taking hold:
sweat's pouring down my brow
reminding me I'm out of shape
but I push on,
occasionally forgetting but mostly remembering
to watch and listen for rattlers,
moving in ackward geometric patterns
that never leave me exposed
to any hiding place
In half-an-hour the yard
is stripped of tall grass,
(clean and neat)
though there are some rough strips and patches:
my expert dad(with his eyes at least)
would call it a mediocre job:
also a small eco-system of beetles, caterpillars,
and preying mantises is annihilated
But I've learned to repress my inner hippie
in rattler country:
inside a sexy girl is waiting with iced tea,
I'm going to write poetry
