The blades of the whirring push mower created that surging, warm pleasant rhythm that arcs upward and then dies in waves. It was five or six front lawns away up the next street. It was a quiet enough neighbourhood that you could hear it from where they were. Some of the kerosene spilled onto his jeans as it dripped out the nail hole in the last tennis ball can at the bottom of the cannon. No matter. It evaporated fast in the sun and the jeans were pretty stained anyway. Five cans were taped end to end with the gaffer
