Across an empty field, turning green but spotted with yellow as the dandelions make their annual appearance, a gangly man—bald, bearded, wearing shorts, an undone plaid shirt, and headphones—walks proudly, marching almost, from one corner to another, with no apparent destination other than the perimeter of his field. No one’s watching. No one’s cheering. Still, he completes the circuit with something like purpose.
moving day
the yard smaller
than he remembered
Ian Kenney 