I was walking to work and saw on an upcoming corner a tall man wearing a sign. The kind of sign I’ve seen on workers who are striking. Or the signs that people wear to market a business. The sign the man on the corner wore said OBSERVER.

As I walked toward him to pass, I noticed his eyes were closed. The smaller print on his sign–I think they’re called sandwich boards–explained that he was part of a carpentry project. He was there, on the corner, identified as an observer, and his eyes wore closed. He was facing the sun, looking toward it or toward a project I couldn’t see.

It was ironic that he was an observer and that his eyes were closed. Not tight. Not shut. Not clenched. Just closed. I imagined he was observing something behind those eyes.

By the time I was passed him and turned to look again, he was walking down the block. I was about to cross, and the observer was on the move.

He taught me something. He taught me that observers can see when they’re not looking. He taught me that observers can close they’re eyes and enjoy the rising sun. He taught me to observe inside, on the other sides of my eyes. Thanks to the observer from this morning.

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