Without Asking

I came home and the fence was there —

posts in concrete, boards going up.

He nodded. I nodded back.

By morning: done. A solid cup

of coffee later, standing at the window,

the maple gone behind the pine.

Three years I'd looked at that alley,

that tree. The property line

was always his. I knew that.

I just hadn't noticed I was using

the view. The gap between two boards

lets through a strip of it — choosing

nothing, just standing there some mornings

before work, looking through

the gap at the alley, the maple's edge.

He put the fence up. It's true

it's his yard. His call.

I don't know what to do with the mornings.