The breeze blew warm across the meadow, bending goldenrods to cast away butterfly and bee, as the man made his way purposefully down the well-worn path to the spring in the valley below. Silver bucket in hand, it swung rhythmically by his side as he navigated deftly between tall grass and milk thistle, whose thorny arms reached out to greet him as he passed.
His footfalls, from many a day past, had hardened the soil such that even the heaviest of rains would not loose the soil beneath him now. He passed the large shale rock, glancing only momentarily at the place where many times he had sat, usually beer in hand, contemplating life, playing his old, worn guitar and wondering about the future. But for today, the future would have to wait. The cold spring beckoned and he hastened his gait.
Downward he descended to the valley below, the path twisting and turning, until it finally came to rest by a small stream at the mouth of which gleamed, in the bright sunshine, a freshwater spring.
Every day the journey the same, for his humble shack had no running water and thus the spring his only source. Removing a bandana from around his sun-weathered neck, he dipped it briefly into the pool of water at the base of the spring and returned it, cold and comforting, again around his neck for the warm journey home.
Primitive, rustic, call it what you will, but daily without fail he carried his precious liquid cargo each day up the hill. Now squatting closer to the small, waterfall running stream he tips his pail carefully beneath the flow of water, mindful to brush away any errant leaves or sticks looking to hitch a ride.
Satisfied now with his collection, he sets aside the 3-quarter filled pail and held beneath the stream a tin cup for one last drink before the journey back up. Peering into the pool below, just as he lifted his pail to go, a crayfish dusted up dirt below in mild protest and the man raised his cup as if in cheer and say Thank You for sharing your home with me here.
General
Likes
964 Views
Share: