The chorus
Somewhere down the street a mower starts.
Then another. Then yours.
Nobody planned it.
Nobody called ahead.
But within the hour the whole block hums.
One engine.
Then two.
Then a chorus.
No conductor.
No sheet music.
Just neighbours tuning in to the same frequency.
We're more synced than we admit.
Not by clocks or calendars.
By the quiet cues we take from each other.
Funny how we find the same rhythm.
Even alone in our backyards.
One mower starts and the street joins in. No conductor. No sheet music. Just neighbours finding the same beat.
