As soon as the fly settled into the poor-boy paper mess, Alfred wrapped up his lunch leavings and threw them off his porch. He never met a plant he didn’t hate. They were taking a break from murdering the trees.
Last and the year before those trees had harbored nesting Hawks.
Oh well. Why push buttons? Why open this sore– when the trick is to BE THE WATCHER, right?
Outside my grief over losing the only four trees in the neighborhood:
- last vestige of my yard-shade—and summer coming on
- Only Origin of inchoate whisper breezes
- High up appurtenance for our few squirrels to run on, tempting Bella, down in the (now hot yard)
- Rest stops for those hotgreen parrots—wild since the thirties all over this town
- Beauty of the so melodious green to soothe the eye.
- Evidence of Love
Outside of the loss of all that
I’m the anomaly. Here, where trees are feared and NATURE is the enemy. (Do you know the work for nature in French is SAUVAGE?)
Nature is the enemy, work hard play hard go off in the morning leaving the A.C. on all day because
Your shadeless home would burst like a bloated moose in the hot sun. yes, oh, my. Oh my.
Stay in that house with the shades drawn TV noise blaring, only come out to get into your truck and go.. I’m the anomaly here, me and my ridiculous thinking.
For 40 hours now the buzz of the chainsaw has torn through the trunks, and wrested life from the weary limbs. The carcass carried off in bits, the men stamping over their yesterday’s chicken bones, today’s Poor Boy sandwich refuse. I wish it were the old days and they’d sing. I wish I were back on sailboat.