A lonesome slow September bee
could let out of a lightbox be
(like me) and with some comfort
say "It's evening"--
Friday even--
intermitent interminable
cotillion of horse trailers,
logging trucks, watertank trucks,
oil trucks (a dry, cold fall they
nodding wish to one another)
ATV's ridden by little boys
in Ninja suits, horse
and riders, bicycles with
third wheel kid extentions
hinged off the back (traffic vests,
pennants, but no
working pedal--the passengers,
tufts of hair poking out
from under their helmets
abstractly regard their
mother's pumping flanks)
a digger arrives
with ceremony (still here the
next 10;04 but idle) on
the back of a big trailer,
cab airbraking with a tired
grumpy hiss, cough
of oil smoke dead stop and then
the grader swings around,
drops its big jaw
to the ground, pivoting
on its forehead
a breaker's spin
off the trailer
and onto the dirt
with a recovery
that becomes a flourish,
and like that the trailer
snaps back, is turned
and up the hill and out
the trailer truck
as it rounds (too fast) Scotchtown
onto Dick is close enough
to shear the house
like an egg
a foot below the windows.