The Isolationist

Yesterday I watched him walk down to the dock with his dog. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity. He was silent, and observant. His dog did not stir. The sun began to set over the lake, and he sat in the grass and watched the stars begin their gradual ascent. He seemed to be serene, and he cast a peaceful portrait against a pastel sunset. He looked like every song that reminded you of every beautiful woman you've ever loved

I watched him and I wondered what he was thinking. I watched this man, so forlorn and so seemingly alone. His emotionless disposition made me feel at ease. His dog at his side quiet, and observant as he. I wondered if he had a wife. If his children were grown. If he had grandkids, and if they made him glow in a way that the evening sky illuminated him.

His beard was thin, and graying. He looked brittle, and as if he had seen the rigors of combat, or perhaps many years upon years of heavy substance abuse. His thin, whispy legs and gaunt physique suggested such. His eyes appeared weary and sullen. Perhaps he has seen things that would make a lesser man weep. Perhaps his weary eyes held secrets.

I watched him rise from his spot in the grass, and he stood and kept vigil toward the lake for a few moments. From his pocket he pulled a piece of tattered paper. A note. He laid this in the grass at his feet and began walking back up the dock, and ambled off toward the darkness, the setting sun at his back. After a few long purposeful strides he stopped, and he glanced back at me. He watched me for a moment, and he smiled. I smiled, and nodded my head in acknowledgement. He turned and walked into the dark, into the shadow, beyond the light of the setting sun. After a few moments he was out of sight. This man unknown. His dog as silent as he. And that was when I finally heard the shrill cries of the locusts, the insects of the night and the owls baying their nighttime elegies

In my own curious proclivity, I approached the shore line, toward his tattered letter. I picked it up for a close glance. There were a few lines of scrambled verses, and illegible scrawled nonsense.At the bottom of the letter, I read a line. It was then that I understood. And it was then that I knew I would never see this man, nor his dog ever again.

I sat upon that bank and wept