Gone with the Wind

This is a bit of a rant, I'm afraid, In the U.S., at least, it seems very few people rake leaves anymore. Instead, the autumnal calm is shattered by the roar of leaf blowers. This can be very disturbing when you're trying to write a poem, so I've attempted to make it an inspiration/occasion for a poem instead.
(The poem is supposed to be single spaced except for five stanza breaks, but blogspot and Word are not on speaking terms this morning, so some extra double-spacing is going on.)

         Gone with the Wind

What is as silent as a leaf-fall
Or as loud as a leaf blower?

I remember when the gentle rasp
And rustle of rake in dry leaves
Marked the beginning of autumn.
Now the growl and groan of handheld
Hurricanes herald the start of the fall.

I guess I don’t blame the hired crews
Who come through with their headphones
And backpacks. The sweat they save may be
Worth the deafening whir when they clear whole
Blocks of leaves, like high tech cowboys
Riding herd on a colorful cattle drive.
At least they are efficient, weekday workers.

But why must my noisy neighbor pick

A Sunday morning to use his macho machine

To chase the first few leaves around his yard.
As if he were Buck Rogers blasting space aliens
Landing from that evil golden oak?

In my mind, he fires one last blast
And the recoil lifts him jetpack-like
To the heavens or to the place where
All such snarling beasts belong.

 And I’m left here on Earth, wondering why

We answer Nature’s lightest touch with such

A heavy hand. Is it because we cannot stop

The seasons, we shoot the messengers instead?