Monday, Cedar, Six Feet

They came on Monday with a digger,

no note, no knock, no call.

Seven in the morning. Engine running.

That's how I knew at all.

I'd looked through that window eleven years.

Pale grass, one dead oak, a wide

strip of ground I'd never claimed

but watched from the inside.

By noon the posts were in. By four

the last board locked in place.

The gap of field I used to see

was gone without a trace—

or almost. I watched it narrow.

I watched the final strip of pale ground

close. I had something polite ready.

Nobody came around.

I know it was their right. I know.

The cedar smells sharp through the screen.

I keep looking up from what I'm doing

at the wood where the field has been.