Short story

"I am the Lord," he said. His bandanna was damp. It was hot and he wished it would rain.
The orange thread poked out from the edges of his machine. It was still long. This was good. He lowered the machine's head into the grass and it buzzed steadily. He did not pull the throttle. His hands and arms hurt from the vibration and he wanted to catch his breath. The grass did not know its time was near. It did not understand what the sound of an engine meant. The sound meant he was making things beautiful again.
His orange thread hung motionless among the high grasses.
His sunglasses slid down his face and he pushed them up. He was alone. They would not pick him up until after lunchtime. He pulled the throttle and heard the high whine.
"I am the Lord," he said, severing the high grasses.