i heard him talking underneath the maple tree in our side yard;
i could not understand what he was saying,
nor to whom he was talking
but
i could hear him
and
wondered why.
i mean, why would someone even be in our side yard under the maple tree
talking to someone
in the late afternoon
toward dusk?
there was no drama in his voice, no humor, no anger, no angst;
from the sound of him:
it seemed to be a droll monotone to whomever he was addressing
and
why do i assume it was a woman?
and
why are they in our side yard under our maple tree? at dusk?
i wondered if i should go out to the side yard
and
introduce myself
to see what was going on.
would it be dangerous?
who was this man talking to someone under the maple tree in our side yard?
i turned on the television to the Five O’Clock News,
the only one we could receive in our small Tennessee town.
NBC, John Cameron Swayze, the clock that keeps on ticking,
but
i kept thinking
why would someone be in our side yard underneath the maple tree
talking to someone else?
his talk had turned to quiet murmurs;
i did not know why.
maybe i should go out
and
ask why he was talking to someone underneath the maple tree in our side yard?
if that worried, i queried myself, perhaps i should take my gun,
a snub-nosed version of the 44-magnum,
the same Harry Callahan used to wipe out many bad guys,
just in case, just in case;
but
as John Cameron Swayze droned on with the evening news and Timex resisting failure in spite of being tied to a 75-horsepower boat engine propeller,
the voice underneath the maple tree in our side yard
began to fade;
i was no longer sure he was underneath our maple tree in our side yard;
he, probably the two of them, were moving away;
i could no longer hear
his voice underneath our maple tree in our side yard,
and
i wondered why?