The Porch

A white-haired old man sits in a dark, ancient, hand-carved rocker on his expansive white front porch enjoying the early morning.

He sips coffee out of a hefty white mug with the words "The Boss" printed in big black letters. He is waiting for what he knows will come. Next to him on the table is a cold cherry wood pipe in a carved, chipped terra cotta ash holder. Next to that a worn chess set is ready for play.

He looks to the right, passed an eclectic collection of well-used patio furniture filling the 40-foot planked floor, into deep woods, cool and green. He looks to the left, over the white-washed railing, past climbing vines, over the narrow dirt road that leads away from the Big House into the fields and out to the rest of the world. In front of him the lush grassy meadow looks like it goes on forever...

The old man sits up in his chair. Yes! There he is.

That small dot rising above the horizon, growing slowly, bobbing up and down. This is what he has been waiting for. Someone is walking upward toward the house. A figure emerges.