I saw a man raking today. He has some big sycamores and a lot of fallen leaves, and it’s late in the season, so he kept his head down and got to it. He pulled the fallen leaves across the walk and piled them into ragged stacks. Intent on his task, he didn't notice cars slowing, pedestrians stopping. Raking?
“What's that sound?” a child asked.
“Hush. Listen,” her Mom whispered. “It's the sound of a bamboo rake scratching leaves across a sidewalk. We used to hear it all autumn long.”
The man kept on, legs planted, torso turned, arms pulling together, pulling in long strokes, pulling the fallen into piles along the walk. The bamboo scraped the crunchy leaves; a breeze floated their musky scent. Fall.
Then, next door: a leaf blower whined. It assaulted the scratching of the rake and cut the conversations. Silenced, the onlookers turned their heads down, gazed at their phones, and moved on through the fumes. The man kept raking, pulling and pulling.
Exactly . Leaf blowers are the Bain of my existence.
Hail to the Raker Man!