My neighbor down the street
works for Ardmore Tree Service.
His truck says it, his shirt says it, there’s no
doubt about it. I’ve seen him
at the grocery store on a summer night,
still in his tree shirt after work,
sap on his hands, bits of leaf in his hair.

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He’s been in a tree all day,
high above the earth, at home 
with the birds and clouds,
lopping this, pruning that, sometimes
feeding a whole tree
to the howling shredder.
Hard work, and I don’t begrudge him
the six-pack in his grocery cart
with the pork chops, nor the afterthought
he ran back for: a bunch of daisies
for his wife. I like that, 
and am reassured,
pleased with the uniqueness
of our whole species.

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Because if the sun blows a fuse,
as it must one day, and we’re toast,
I don’t think you’ll ever see anything
quite like this again—trees and clouds, 
maybe, and even rain and lightning bugs 
on August nights. But
I don’t see the six-pack, the tall cool ones
with a picture of a mountain lake on the label,
nor Ardmore Tree Service, nor
the gift of the daisies, presented dripping
in their clear plastic sheath, ever
quite happening again.