It’s odd to be a sundial. He’s up with a camera on a roof in the railyard, inching around vents, additions, storerooms, gables—warts grown and not removed—trying to keep out of the sun, trying to set up for the shot, wondering whether the light is already too bright, too hot, too direct, wondering why the train is late. It’s never late, or it’s always late. Maybe it’s only late when he’s up here waiting. If he brought a toolbox up here and set it out on the tar, he could probably use it to bake a cake. And it’s not even noon.
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