The two of us sitting in the sun. My grandfather
spoke, in the parlous shade of an oak, of the
old swamp maple, now gone: its handsome
sweep, the buckle and crest of the lawn, a
querulous, obvious decline. We are both of us
shaded by degrees. He spoke about seeding and
spreading the chips that the tree men had made of the
maple: the whine of the motor in the chipper; the
odors of oil and wood on the cooling
breeze; the sight, in leaving-winter light, of
faces red from outdoors. His broken
voice. He had meant to say 'mulch' but couldn't re-
member the word anymore. In the sun, not
quite so warm as the word: a spent and
querulous spirit; and, then, a fading wheeze.
(Edited and begun 21 March 2010. An actual conversation, a fictional ending; and maybe I've done something with it rhythmically.)
