The motion is hypnotic, timeless. An outstretched arm, the curve of a rake’s end the arm’s extension, reaching forward to gather what has fallen.

As I work my heart stills. There is progress, measured in leaves corraled, bags stuffed, sticks broken and tied.

My eyes look up to a swirl in the sky.

I’m not the only busy one.

A niggling wind has frisked the Kwanzan cherry and now, on the green grass, lies a pile of gold.