Early this morning just after the sun
begins its day in our neighborhood
two elderly men arrive in their
little white truck, its bed hauling
shovels, axes, a pick or two, wheel-
barrow, assorted rakes—and their
little black boom box. They are here
to whale away at a big patch of wild
weeds and grass I need defeated from
my front yard. I sit on my porch step,
not to oversee because they have known
for all their lives how to work against
weeds and other stubborn growth.
The pandemic is no match for these
two whose social distancing may not
suit the virus gurus. As they dig and
rake and haul away their talk animates,
fills the air—hardy laughs, grunts
accompany tugs against tough grass.
pauses to wipe a brow, massaging
a calloused hand, back stretching.
In their galaxy today, the antibody
is talk mixed with dollops of country
music, occasional arias of southern
gospel plus a local car salesman still
hawking the best deals in town.
Earl Wilcox is reopening his back yard to squirrels, robins, and cotton tail rabbits. Early worms show up at their own risk.