Like an old western

A humid summer evening, at least by Portland standards. He stands in the neighbor’s yard, calling out insults that morph into threats. The streets have cleared like an old western. Eyes peer out of windows, hoping to see but not be seen. He demands justice for his offended child; someone must pay. Like a bull anxious to charge, he looks to find his enemy. He snorts and paces. The sun settles behind roofs and trees. Onlookers lose interest and fade away into the night. Darkness overwhelms the neighborhood. He slips home and downs a few before falling asleep on the couch.