An ancient mower stands poised in the front yard, its tongue lapping at the fated grass that grows beneath its belly. It bares its teeth upright, casting a long shadow in the orange light that cuts through the coffee-black night from across the street at Miss May's house. A choir of crickets melodically reminisces about the bared teeth barreling through fields now grown wild. Every now and then a tree frog chimes in to casually agree, sometimes to correct, the recounting of its brutal reign. Now it stands a trophy, a monument to generations gone by. And it still stands poised, baring its teeth and lapping its tongue and casting its dark shadow across the green sea like a terrible divine entity. But it is helpless. Helpless to stop the green tide from rising above its white metal wheels and wrapping around its long dried tongue. Helpless to stop the grinding gears of clocks trying to keep up with the decadence of time. Helpless to fend off the biting teeth of rust that eats away its gears and levers more and more each year. But tonight the crickets sing and the orange light dances around its tomb to remember. And I listen. And I watch. And I am there to write this tombstone for the funeral of the ancient mower.