the landlord next door

the man drives a late model 4x4 jeep; the wife, a merc. the man thinks only of money. the man works all the time. the work starts with a chain saw and continues with power tools for everything. the man is devoted to neatness. the man has shorn my trees along his fenceline, just about killing them and certainly depriving small birds of their corridor from my front yard to the back. i love trees. so much. i am passionate about trees. they keep the indian minahs at bay. my trees are natives to this soil. there are fungi, mistletoe, spiders and lizards and frogs and you name it. he is between tenants. the man has no sense of aesthetic except tidiness. the man has no other value than profit. the man has put two miserable dwellings on the house block. the newer one, a jimcrack construction, has two solar panels over the tiny bathroom. he has been working 15 hours every day for a month and i hate him deeply. he has cleaned the roof and the yellow fibro of the outside walls. he must be so proud. his work has given him such a feeling of moral entitlement he spoke in response to my grumpy nod of acknowledgement of his existence. what he said was, i wanted to talk to you about the shade on my solar panels. i think that's what he said. i put out my hand in a gesture of 'don't argue' as soon as i heard solar panels. then he said, you won't talk to me. no, i firmly replied. well, that's a bit selfish, he called, because i was just about inside my house. why would i talk to you when i want you to die? the scribbly gum is about 10 metres high and growing: does he expect me to cut it down? it's the middle of winter you moron, the sun is low, the shadows are long. i am revolted by his awful, murderous righteousness. his ubiquioustness renders me powerless, except for silence and refusal.