at the white house on the corner they’re having a tree cut down —
a perfectly good tree, by the looks of things, with pale green baby leaves
bursting from the branches —
and through my open window i can hear a diesel engine idling
and the conversational racket of the workmen

at the back of the green house that shares our fence
two men carry a yellow measuring tape,
peering up at the windows or the newly-shingled roof
(it’s not clear which)
before mysteriously disappearing from view

beyond our backyard in the electric company’s right-of-way
sits a blue pickup stuffed with boards and a man in a shirt of dayglo green
who resignedly bows his head toward the steering wheel
as if waiting for something to happen

in the distance, thunder rumbles