September’s labor…

We roll around through the seasons of northwest light, mornings reclaimed by darkness, evenings cinched down minute by minute, consumed by night.

I prune trees, a seasonal obsession. Each tree is a complex hairdo, a living art project. Squinting from across the yard, I target the wood that will be cut, but standing by the tree a moment later, I can no longer tell whether it’s this branch or that one, so I go back, memorize the pattern, approach again. When I find the best angle to reach a branch, the sun glares from directly behind it, so I recalculate, walk in circles craning upward.

Apologizing for my intrusion, I climb among the lichened branches of the crab apple, hair snagged and dragged from under my scarf. I’m cautious, aware of the hazards — the ladder, the saw, the trajectory of a falling branch. Nearby, a wasp tests the purple leaves but doesn’t alight. Spiders set their nets, grab at my clothes, parade across the top of my sunglasses. Sawdust rains onto their webs.

Loppers, clippers, saw, then wrestle the cut branches to the ground; they want to stay aloft. Down the ladder, up, down, walk away, turn, measure, chop twigs into the green-waste bin, circle, calculate, picture the tree naked. Up the ladder, down. The adjacent apple tree, desperate for pruning, calls to me. I don’t listen.

Parsing the sentences of branches, I edit the tree.