The Couple Sits in the Noon Hour

The couple sits in the noon hour
on the deck yearning to hear the
bubbling waterfall, the songs of
the wind chimes, the singing of
the birds, the rustling of the new,
bright, green leaves, and maybe
even the roar of the waves on
the Big Lake on a windy day,
but not even a protective row of
Arborvitae, the semi-circle of
birches around the pond, the
grove of red and white pines,
the phalanx of cedars, the
giant maples wrapping the
house, nor the choke cherry
can choke the sound of the
machines of the misplaced
suburbia down the dunes from
where quiet natives used to
live in harmony with sea, sun,
sand, shade. They roar and belch
in an unending attempt to keep
everything, absolutely every-
thing, postage-stamp-perfect in
Beaver Cleaver Land.

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