Mountain Home At Dusk

He knew a world of lesser life, "miles from here and everywhere," he'd often quip. He sat in a swing hung from chains, soaking up nature after the fence mending and baling of hay was done. Time to untangle the worries, unburden the aches and pains of the day- send them on down the creek. He would scrape dirt from his boots, then whittle on a stick, drawing in the thick evening air- overalls and shirtless. And I on the porchstep, long rid of paint...barefoot, watching the sun hemorrhage through the old oak leaves. Nightfall would slowly sponge up the pale, honey-hued sky while wildflowers would nod off in the cool autumn breeze. He, sipping bourbon from a cup, would become the vainglory of tales, and I with lemonade- the idolizer- paid homage with keen ears while the choirs of bullfrogs lauded their serenade. Then God would snap on His heavenly lights, making the fireflies vie for attention as his stories overflowed late into the night- each page of the scrapbook kept inside his head, was dusted and narrated with pride. And I listened with a reverent air. The next morning I would find myself tucked into an old feathered bed...never remembering how I got there.