Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025

***

Fuck. 

Here we go again… 

There!

It was barely a whisper, as bashful as that leak in your tire – you know, the one that’s always got you in the driveway – neck bent, knees screaming into the rock as you try to find the fucker?

Yeah – that one…

Coasting over the pines, it joined the chorus of insects who chirped and cheered; rained down with the pollen; and came to rest in the late-summer sun. 

Hmmm… Could it…? There’s no way. 

I swear… Oh, good God! 

My heart sank as a neighbor wandered into view, wielding that downfall of lazy Sundays and unemployable writer’s weekdays everywhere: 

The lawnmower. 

And with it came the whine – that snarling AMBER Alert oh-so-happyto stick its nose in a perfectly peaceful afternoon…

This neighborhood was crawling with the bastards.

Still – I’d never seen a silver lawnmower… it was much quieter, maybe a battery-powered model? Do they make those? Of course they do… I mean, these days you could get a battery-powered neighbor, for fuck’s sake. 

And there was something else…

Between the bees, the blades, and the buzzing… was a kind of warble?

I cocked my head to the side, listening… With a grin, I realized he was singing! 

Battling over rocks and roots, razing ant hills, my neighbor let loose – crying out as he waged the suburbia-old War on Grass. 

Belting out with abandon, my neighbor patrolled his yard; mush-mouthed echoes wooed me from across the street, angst and all.

Sunlight danced across my face and I laughed, buoyed by a lack of worry and a surplus of weed…

Just a man and his mower – fighting photosynthesis and time… 

***