Azaleas are in bloom
Heavy, yet gently swaying on their fecund branches
As are white cascading lilacs
I see Amish youth touch,
Confused, could they be Wilding?
But the magnolias have fallen,
Shod rotted petals are underfoot
Their rust coloured leaves shine like polished leather in their stead
In thick, humid, almost tropical, still air
Paid landscapers shape mulch from yard to yard
Unsightly weeds, purposely plucked, removed
Occasional rabbits scamper from unknown prey
Fleeting
And a vaguely familiar face walks my way;
We met only once before.
As lawnmowers hum and shears do the clippings
“I just voted,” she whispers,
“Was it full?” I said
“No, I wish there were more,”
Her eyes dart about,
“I teach conversational English to migrants.”
Her voice becomes softer, the humming seems louder –
and she scurries away…
This isn’t LA
I look around, see a Roundup sign on a garden track
Another cottontail then, just crosses my path.