Plumb

The first clear evening in a week and nothing moving. Over the courtyard the chimneys each let up one grey thread, plumb as a builder's line, as if someone had finally asked the smoke where it wanted to go and waited for the answer.

Ten degrees. On a sill across the way a pumpkin, carved early, not lit, already slack at one corner of the grin, like it was told Saturday and doesn't believe it.

A man comes out on his balcony in a vest, to smoke. He looks up because it's clear. I look up because he did. Two stars, and a plane working hard at being a third.

He goes in. His smoke stays a moment after him, upright, keeping his place.