Four months ago the arborist knocked on my door,
here to eyeball the long locks of foliage out back,

especially the leafy growth swaddling the trapeze-like
lines swooping from tall electric poles to house.

He had recommendations—which I seconded—
adding that tree trimmers would come along later.

All summer I’ve been keeping an eye out for
the saw-bearing tree guys to show, and today,

as I arrived home mid-afternoon, there they
were, tackling the overgrowth next door

before getting to mine. And though I’ve seen
this high-wire act before—mostly done nimbly

from the ground with a long-armed saw—
today it occurred to me what delicate pruners

these professionals are. Sure, one chain sawed
a large volunteer fig down to the dirt,

but Marcos also stood on the lawn looking up
at power lines and tree lines, deftly

removing a section of branch here, a lower
limb there, studying it like a painter

considering a canvas. Which he is, clearly,
working six days a week with his crew

over the past four months to nip and tuck
what needs trimming before the rains come.

And, like any good florist—not to mention
barbers—after Marcos and crew finished tidying,

everything looks fresher, brighter, lighter,
the trees whispering among themselves

in the late afternoon Delta breeze, a bit
bouncier after their long-overdue haircut.