Yellow, the sun sits in the elbow of the day. The clouds rest their bulk on the forearm’s strength. The blue sky covers the periphery, and Jack sits with his back against the rough bark of a streamside tree. He has fished enough. There was no objective. No timeline. Freedom...
From the canopy of trees, the sound of a meadowlark erupts clean and distinct. The sound stills the air, but it cannot occupy the space. The birdsong is stolen by the sky and the trees.
Sitting against the tree, Jack thinks about the woman he lost. He cannot remember her name. Not now. Fifty years have passed; his mind is going. Sometimes, he remembers, sometimes, he does not.
The smell of rot is thick in the air. A thick, growing smell. The smell of life, of soil being turned.
Jack closes his eyes and breathes into the tree. He is ready to join the current. He is ready to be part of it all.