Autumn in New England

Jeff Meller

Senses

10 Sept 13

148 words

Autumn in New England. 

Those words conjure crisp coolness, the rustle of brittle leaves, dry crystalline wind, the crack of sycamore nuts hitting the sidewalk, the forbidden aroma of burning leaves, the fading warmth of summer past, a shiver anticipating winter to come.

All these sensations endure in the leafy, professorial precincts of Cambridge.

But the 21^st century adds new sounds to autumn in New England: the grinding of the garbage truck as it compresses trash at 2,000 pounds per square inch, the buzz of hedge trimmers up and down the street, the drone of lawn mowers releasing one last heady burst of chlorophyll from grass cut before winter, the whine of the recycling truck, the shrill alarm from every truck backing-up, a chain saw biting through a diseased limb.  And blowers, blowers everywhere, sweeping like small jet engines what bamboo rakes used soothingly to pile into mounds.

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