By James Tate
In the backyard, I saw the shadow of a
man, but I didn’t see the man. I walked toward
it, and the shadow backed away. The shadowman
was taller than I was. It mocked me. When I
waved my arms, he waved his. I ran and it
followed. When I stopped, it stopped. And all
the while it was silent. It couldn’t sing,
but I could. I sang at the top of my lungs.
The birds flew away in a cloud. The neighbors
pounded on their windows. Finally, the shadowman
turned and slithered into his hole.