early bright and riotous morning
a droning moaning pulls me
eyes asquint, the mystery-dissolving window
an oldish man, orange work shirt
baseball cap taming already blistering sun
his machine rolls uphill and down
grim reaper to grasses, weeds, insects
I wonder what he thinks about
steering that irregular landscape
was there breakfast?
tell me of his inner world
or does it fleet into a vacuum
of robotic manual labors
as now the world has here commenced
all sleeping rudely exposed as sloth
the earning of keep without telos
but I retired, to less manual intents
watch the white roses first sniff of day
or wait for the phoebes to outlast the motors
stunned brief on their opportune branches
till alive silence resumes with a chirp
and the man pilots up a worn wooden ramp
into a ramshackle once cheerful gray truck
without looking about he drives it off
while a white petal selects now to drop earthward
caressing my luck-filled perception
just long enough
for writer’s work

_______RS

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