at seven a.m.
they swarm, like bees
upon the grounds,
the mowers, the trimmers,
the blowers,
cutting,
moving the fallen branches
around, pushing
them towards trucks
with open mouths to grind them
down. it's never ending.
this growth and killing,
these men, with
headphones, and hats,
banditos in masks,
wearing purple shirts,
gloved and fast, they swarm,
they keep moving.
you can hardly hear the trash
truck backing up,
it's a symphony out of tune
in the courtyard.
you're awake now, no more
sleeping this Monday
morning.
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