A cowboy was sitting on that bench but now he is gone.
Maybe he’s taking this picture.
Maybe he’s dozing behind a tree, shaded from sunlight and rain while the maples still hold their leaves.
Maybe he’s departed, leaving only traces of himself in a fancy coat and black hat, as if a spooky cat had transformed itself into a hat, and a world-weary cowboy had turned into the colorful blocks of wool that comprised a coat seemingly left behind.
Maybe he is still there but we just can’t see or sense him.
That’s far too many maybes in a world already rife with uncertainty.
Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
Maybe…
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