On the one side, a wide open field, urban parkland, filled with wildblossoms like unto a snowstorm of beauty, of fragrance, of joy.
On the other, the rear-engine mower, hydrocarbon haze, churning in lines because Tuesdays are scything-days, petals or no.
Between them, me, hand on wheel over idling engine, stoplight brilliant in plexiglass ahead.
It will all be gone by the time I return.
I am moved to silent tears, rolling oily down cheeks still sunburned from the last walk, sopping across nostrils aching for an iota of fragrance.
The light changes, and I see no more. A scene for my dreams thereafter, then, waking or resting, blissful or nightmare.