The first pass to outline the property,
then the long rows, down and back,
down and back, covering the same ground
two steps over, slicing through whatever
stands in the way — grass leaf,
oak leaf, cigarette butt.

I know this patch of earth
better than anyone, having
followed the mower across
its every inch so many times:

the gentle hump
the blades will scalp,
how the dogwood’s soft bark
will yield to the edge
of the mower deck,

how furred magnolia pods disintegrate
with a satisfying chunk,
and that the purr of the engine
draws sharp-eyed finches to hunt
desperate moths
as they make a break
for the diminishing forest
of uncut grass.