I am like every boy kid who
races outside when he hears
a siren, hoping to catch a glimpse
of the huge red truck zooming by.

Though in my case, I am a bonafide
oldster who leapt up from the computer
like a much younger being when I
heard the telltale scrape-scrape
of the claw in front of my house
on a sunny Monday afternoon.

The blesséd yard guys had tidily
draped half a season’s worth of yard
detritus along the curb, a dull
shawl of brittled sycamore leaves,
whips of spent wisteria vines
topped off by some of my neighbor’s
tired greenery.

It all sat there for two weeks,
decomposing, each day sending me
into a tiny tizzy: Are they coming?
Did claw season end, and I missed it?

But hearing the unmistakable sound,
I looked out the front window, and
there they were—the two-man crew—
one throttling the big scraper that
scoops up all manner of debris off
our streets, and the other green-vested
driver standing in the street alongside
his big blue behemoth of a city vehicle
whose open mouth receives what
the claw delivers.

Theirs is a finely choreographed dance
worthy of Ailey or Graham, and even
after three months of collecting what our
city of trees has discarded, it still makes
for a delightful performance.

I went outside, took photos, grinning
as the green-vested man struck
a sidewalk pose, his hand raised in an
open-fingered wave as his partner
clawed up the last of the leavings.

Then the waving man performed
the pièce de résistance, retrieving a wide
push broom from the big blue truck
and sweeping the remains into a tidy pile
for the claw’s final pass before they
departed, waving like firefighters
off to save other citizens,

these servants of civility who, I hope,
get as much of a kick out of admirers
like me as I do them.