The Mesquite Man

He stood on a concrete retaining wall running along the trail just beyond the kayak and canoe launch by the lake. His arms were extended over his head holding onto the handles of a pair of garden loppers. He was trimming the branches of a Mesquite tree that had hung down too low.

I had seen evidence of the Mesquite Man before, lopped-off branches stacked in neat piles sitting at intervals by the side of the path. I knew he existed. I knew of his work, but I had never seen him in action before.

So there he was, next to his bike, standing on the wall, a strained look on his face as he held the wooden handles waiting for us to pass. I looked up at him.

Thanks, I said.

He looked down at me and smiled and grunted in acknowledgement and chopped off the branch as we ran by.

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