The orange truck moves from block to block. Sometimes, kids watch. A cat slinks by. During the next storm, we'll be glad of the branches trimmed to limits. But sometimes, I want to tear down the signs that go up overnight: No Parking. Tree Service. Monday 8-5.
Last day; last haiku
A tree dies in sawdust smoke
Who will I tell now?
---Sara Lewis Holmes
Thank you to all my friends who wrote beside me, and to those who commented here. You made April poetry.