He stood on the small mound of prairie dirt, shadow falls over a sod-roofed cabin where his woman leaned in the doorway.
With eyes as sharp as the eagle his grandfather revered, he gazed into the distance, seeing nothing, seeing everything.
He gripped the rifle tightly with his right hand as if to protect his tool as it protected him, and he waited for whatever
drove up the closing cloud of dust. He as unafraid, almost apathetic. A man who has suffered everything has nothing new to fear.
Whatever the dirtsmoke held, the man was ready to die. Perhaps even anxious to die. The next life had to be better.
He waited.
12/21/1971