Mower’s Song The boy who mows my yard thinks that he once was I. He pushes pretty hard under the prairie sky. He has no belching motor or right-hand discharge chute, no madly whirring rotor, and he’s no longer cute. Just a front-mounted reel geared to a rubber wheel, and that is how the grass made on the Lord’s Third Day will fall as fragrant hay until I too shall pass. Tim Murphy
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