On Saturday I supervised a change of state:
a pile of brush two-years high
had reached the point it couldn’t wait.

In our field beside the tracks
where berries would be planted soon
my job’s to make sure nothing
changes state without intention that might
need a dousing intervention with all-out
sirens and pump-truck monsoons.

So, I stand with shovel at attention
near a snake of garden hose in grass
and watch for flares of flaming gases
that might leap to nearby desiccated leaves
or other inappropriate locations having
slipped the noose of well-soaked earth I’d
laid in cautious preparation.

Far-off low-pressure voids not calling
desperately to be satisfied, the breeze
is dangerously slight.

Under blue, where gray clouds collide,
the sun can’t scorch with all its might;
still, I wear a straw corona, brimmed
to outwit melanoma

A nearby chipmunk, overseeing,
first hops forward then goes fleeing,
she does this half a dozen times,
like me, to wit:  another
vacillating state of being

Jim Culleny
5/2/13