The Lawnmower Reverie

The line never has a ruler's edge. Cut grass always lacks precision in sunshine. The engine sputters on a hill behind the house. We stall amid the tall weeds, waiting for fuel for the restart. On we go in circles, up and down sloped hills and curved ridges. The wishing well is dry. Its bucket is broken. The barn breeds cobwebs. The house has mice. The blade is lifted over stone and root. On a sharp decline, my foot slips off the brake. The vehicle jousts a dead stump. Wheels and blades turn left, all forward progress halts. The rider is in the grass, a knight dismasted from his horse. Blades stop spinning. Engine idles into stop. The knight is just a lawn mowing man, dreaming of other summer days, other ways to cut the grass into lines. Somewhere he sees a dusk on his rump, where all the lines fade, and fantastic green shapes form like magic, in the dark. Sounds of others mowing break the reverie. He pops the clutch and turns a key. The lawnmower heads back to the garage, For more gas.