Skeet

'Mosquito Pete' (or 'Skeet') for short A seasoned guy, the strangest sort It was the only name we ever knew His story known by very few A weathered old maverick on a country lane A bit peculiar, not at all ashamed He never said much, or went anywhere Kept close to the vest, with a certain air We are the neighbors who lived down the road We heard many stories, he liked to reload He knew what the sun was intending to do Why the gray clouds curled, why the sky was blue He would talk of Nebraska, hogs and grain But mostly about crops, the frost, or rain Standing alone, on a sun-drenched day Out in the field, he would call to the Jay He'd look to sky, horizon in his gaze transfixed for an hour, as if in a daze There were hints of a past, within seasoned eyes and we wondered if somewhere, he had known other skies But lightly, as the blossoms cling, the years swung around Tapping on his shoulders, until his songs were sung A maverick barely known, for many a year ...but today, his stories have all ended here We see an empty farmhouse, and with a sad disbelief... Surprised, and unexpected,..immense in our grief For the story that begun over eighty-plus years ago there is much,... too much, that we will never know Who was Skeet...the man that had no name? Does he have a proper name? something different to exclaim? Engraved upon a stone..........what could his name be? Now, "Skeet" will have to do.....for all eternity....... ___________________ For the contest sponsored by Mystic Rose .....................................................................................................