The sun has pulled
the dew from the grass,
leaving the roots warm, humid, soft.
The sky is blue, cloudless.
We wait for the breeze.
It comes.

The cutting begins.
I follow my father:
my tractor after his.
The umbrella shades him,
vibrates above his head.
My tractor after his,
my circle inside the circle
of his mower, I trace
the boundary of his last round.
I follow the tire treads