Yard

Valley light, the flat kind,

the kind that doesn't bother.

The man in the yard—

arms at his sides,

standing in the dead grass

behind a house with its blinds drawn.

I registered him late.

Three seconds, maybe.

The train already past him

by the time the image landed,

and when I turned to find him

the house was just a shape

going smaller in the window glass.

He wasn't doing anything.

Not walking toward the fence,

not walking away.

Not on a phone.

Not smoking.

Just standing

in the brown yard

in the flat February light.

I know.

I know I'm the one doing the thing.

He could have been catching his breath.

He could have just stepped outside.

But his arms—

straight down at his sides,

the way a person stands

when they've stopped making plans

for what comes next—

The train kept going.

I kept going.

The window gave me the next thing

and the next.

I turned back once more

and there was only the Valley,

flat and gray and going.