It was too loud, too deep for the usual firecracker.
Not a black cat or a ladyfinger, maybe an M-80… or a pistol.
I looked across the street, past the intersection
and 60 paces down the cross street
and I think I saw the slim young black man
vault over the waist-high wall
at the front of the house.
He turned back toward the landing he had just left and
raising his arm high,
his hand pointing back down into the space between the wall and the house
he weaved and bobbed, like a gardener manically hosing down a garden—on fire.
I motion with my right hand
because that’s my gun hand.
The shouting was in a resonant baritone, very loud, punctuated by repeated reports from the gun, words I cannot recall but all amazed and pleading and again
And again and it may have been only half a dozen shots, but it seemed like 20.. like 50.. like it was never going to stop, but
Whether from lack of ammunition or the satisfaction of a job complete
the white-shirted black-shorted dancer coiled and whirled and sprinted off and I looked at my friend
And she looked at me,
And I pulled out my cell ‘phone.