Lucky Seven

Gorgeous weekend morning
Perfect breeze blows just right
In pulls a big truck
Painted color of the night

“Lucky Seven Tree Co”
Nothing lucky there at all
The noise of saw and grinder
Roars in — invading all

The quiet shatters loudly
On this lovely weekend morn
It isn’t even 9 am!
At least you could have warned!

I would have closed my windows
Put plugs into my ears
Instead I sit here cringing
As branches grind through gears

The hum of the machine
Eating all that comes in close
A blank spot now across the street
A tree is now a ghost