I'm sitting by the small manmade lake in the next town over. Shadows of leaves reflect on the water and an egret lifts one leg, steps carefully in the water. What's wrong with this scene?
The jarring blast of a leaf blower reverberates across the neighborhood. This is the most American of all devices. It's loud, it burns fuel, and it doesn't really solve the leaf problem. It just blows the leaves off the property onto the street to be dealt with by someone else.
What happened to rakes? I remember combing grass and piling leaves high enough to jump into. They were never as soft as you could imagine but there was a warm earthy fragrance I can still catch in the ancient part of my brain. My apologies to my friends in the north who have had their first dusting of snow. I'm still in fall here in this most alien of lands- the deep south.
Here's my poem- the title has no connection to the song:
These days I reject
that summer could end,
that frost covers window panes,
that you could die.
I head to school each day
fill minds with words
take a train
back and forth
while bigger battles are fought.