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Chlorophyll Angels

ISSUE:  Summer 1994
When it rains, the county sands our road
with cat litter. Later the clay pellets melt
around the tiny shells of grass seed.

By morning the road needs a trim.
A retired postal clerk hooks up the triple
blade to his John Deere 214.

Set too low, the blade cuts deeper
than green, uncovers the white roots
of chlorophyll angels at choir practice.

When he’s done, mower in the shed, shed
door locked and polished, you can hear
the angels: swing low sounds like

the reluctant, yet hopeful, footsteps
of beginning divers climbing their first cliff
above the wide, unpredictable green.


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