I once lived near a man that cut his lawn with scissors. He scooted around the grass with his legs crossed Indian-style, clipping small patches at a time -- sharp, crisp, like a military flat top. He edged around the sidewalk as though he was shaving around Nature’s ears. He was beautiful cutting his beautiful lawn.
Today I’m watching an army of riding lawn mowers cutting in utilitarian unison. The lawn loosely resembles a broad pinstriped ball field but it is not beautiful.
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