It’s like a whoosh but not quite,
the sound of a heavy door pulling
away from a soft cushion
of thick weather stripping.
It reminds me of visiting grandma,
ringing the doorbell and her appearing
behind the square pane of privacy glass,
and then whoosh as she opens the door slowly.
She’s surprised to see me and grins,
holding the storm door open
with frail hands and saying,
“Hot enough for you?”
Then there’s the scrapping sound
of a rusty shovel being dragged
back and forth across the surface
of the bed of a Ford F-150.
It’s like a grading sound
as I push the shovel away from me
and more of a scrapping sound
as I pull it back with a scoop of mulch.
I’m working outside with my dad,
and taking his hat off his head,
he’s saying, ”It’s funny,
trees are cannibals.”