by Dan Leach
A lawnmower is not a sparrow.
Its early morning notes, blending
with leaf-blowers and hedge-trimmers
do not ease me into Saturday.
Steel blades spin faster than flapping wings,
sharpened to cut through delicate things.
Like grass and root,
Like peace and quiet.
Never have I smiled
when the lawnmower’s song reached my bed.
Yet never has a bare-foot boy of summer
hidden in a holly bush,
armed with a brown-sack lunch
and a BB gun,
pumped twice with a wicked grin
and held a lawnmower in his scope.