Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: mowing
Posted with BlogsyJune 24: Hot
Kristen Lindquist
Ah, the sultry days of summer, how I've missed you...
No cicadas here,
just the persistent whine
of neighbor's lawnmower.
No cicadas here,
just the persistent whine
of neighbor's lawnmower.
June 10: Mown
Kristen Lindquist
I mow the back yard only a few times a season, generally preferring to let the ferns and wildflowers flourish. Yesterday was a mowing day, and at least one creature besides myself seemed grateful for the shorn grass.
While I watch from inside
single crow calmly
picks through mown lawn's stubble.
While I watch from inside
single crow calmly
picks through mown lawn's stubble.
July 3: Knee high by the 4th of July
Kristen Lindquist
"Knee high by the 4th of July" refers to the height one's corn should be by now, if I'm remembering right. For me, it referred to the height of the grass in my backyard before I finally mowed it this evening. Each summer I seem to go longer before mowing, enjoying the various phases of flowers--first the little violets and forget-me-nots, later the daisies and hawkweed. At this point, the flowers had been subsumed by ferns and tall, feathery grasses, and I decided I wanted a cleaner look. Also, I wanted to be able to sit in my backyard without succumbing to an asthma attack from breathing all that grass-dust.
It felt a bit like mowing a hay field, except no bird's nests or baby rabbits were harmed in the process--though I half expected some creature to startle up in front of the mower. I did mow a blue jay feather, which felt wrong somehow, but disturbed nothing else larger than a moth. Still, the neighborhood flicker is calling over and over now, as if in alarm.
Good old sweaty work--
lawn so high it's like haying.
I should have a scythe.
It felt a bit like mowing a hay field, except no bird's nests or baby rabbits were harmed in the process--though I half expected some creature to startle up in front of the mower. I did mow a blue jay feather, which felt wrong somehow, but disturbed nothing else larger than a moth. Still, the neighborhood flicker is calling over and over now, as if in alarm.
Good old sweaty work--
lawn so high it's like haying.
I should have a scythe.
October 22: Last Lupine
Kristen Lindquist
The Harvest Moon rises tonight, the October full moon, the light of which once enabled farmers to get in that last harvest by working into the illuminated night. My co-worker seemed to be perpetuating our connection to that agrarian past by mowing the field that is the office lawn this afternoon. Milkweed fluff churned in the brisk breeze, fallen leaves swirled in his wake, and the lawn is now corrugated with thick ridges of mown grass.
When he came in from his version of "haying," he brought us a gift: the season's last lupine. I haven't seen a lupine in flower since last June, I think, so this one was a true surprise. We wondered if it was a second round from a plant that figured it would try again, having bloomed a few weeks earlier than usual this summer. Or maybe it bloomed in response to the full moon. "Lupine" means "wolf-like," after all, so this could be the flower's way of howling at the moon.
This tall purple stalk now sits in a coffee cup on the window sill, the russets and ochres of fall foliage providing a contrasting backdrop: summer meets fall. Soon enough, our "last flower" will give way to our "first snowfall."
Out of season gift:
a single lupine blooming
under Harvest Moon.
When he came in from his version of "haying," he brought us a gift: the season's last lupine. I haven't seen a lupine in flower since last June, I think, so this one was a true surprise. We wondered if it was a second round from a plant that figured it would try again, having bloomed a few weeks earlier than usual this summer. Or maybe it bloomed in response to the full moon. "Lupine" means "wolf-like," after all, so this could be the flower's way of howling at the moon.
This tall purple stalk now sits in a coffee cup on the window sill, the russets and ochres of fall foliage providing a contrasting backdrop: summer meets fall. Soon enough, our "last flower" will give way to our "first snowfall."
Out of season gift:
a single lupine blooming
under Harvest Moon.
July 22: Background Noise
Kristen Lindquist
Thunder rocked and rolled through the neighborhood last night for much longer than I had expected--a true summer thunderstorm, with the fireworks of frequent lightning flashes, as well. Even our old, semi-deaf cat, who has never been weather sensitive, seemed startled by some particularly loud thunderclaps. It sounded as if an ogre were up on Mount Battie bowling a few of those big glacial erratics over the talus slope. It went on so long that I almost grew used to the rumbling as I read into the evening.
Tonight we've got background noise of a different sort, as the guy who lives across the river mows his lawn past dark. I just finished mowing my own lawn about an hour ago, having been thwarted at the task yesterday by the rainstorm, so I don't hold it against him. I've never gotten a good look at exactly what kind of lawn is over there, but it must be big, because he mows often and for a long time, and on a riding mower. So the drone of a lawn mower is a near constant during the warmer months. Before dusk fell in earnest, the mower's whine was complemented by the sharp whistles of our neighborhood cardinal, who decided to end his day with some fanfare.
Even with the mower going, I can still hear the trickle and flow of the river on its meandering way into the harbor. That's a constant. As is the undercurrent of cricket song, that gentle thrum in the soft July air. And just now, the querulous honking of a lone goose heading upriver to join its family on the lake.
Last evening, thunder.
Tonight, crickets' hum outlasts
the lawnmower's drone.
Tonight we've got background noise of a different sort, as the guy who lives across the river mows his lawn past dark. I just finished mowing my own lawn about an hour ago, having been thwarted at the task yesterday by the rainstorm, so I don't hold it against him. I've never gotten a good look at exactly what kind of lawn is over there, but it must be big, because he mows often and for a long time, and on a riding mower. So the drone of a lawn mower is a near constant during the warmer months. Before dusk fell in earnest, the mower's whine was complemented by the sharp whistles of our neighborhood cardinal, who decided to end his day with some fanfare.
Even with the mower going, I can still hear the trickle and flow of the river on its meandering way into the harbor. That's a constant. As is the undercurrent of cricket song, that gentle thrum in the soft July air. And just now, the querulous honking of a lone goose heading upriver to join its family on the lake.
Last evening, thunder.
Tonight, crickets' hum outlasts
the lawnmower's drone.