• The Old Man

    An ode to Ruark.  And also our grandfathers. The Old Man watches as the steam rises off his coffee mug, just poured from the old rusty thermos his wife gave him so long ago. He drinks his coffee black.  No cream.  No sugar.  It’s just easier that way. His pale, grey eyes scan the darkness for the faintest flicker of movement.  His hands caress the checked wood grain of his father’s Remington, each scar and carving familiar to his touch. The Kid is drifting in and out of sleep at the other end of the small boat. He drew the short straw among his brothers and cousins and Grandpa picked…