by Frank Hayes
“You know, Jimmy, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
* * *
The early-evening sky was already showing a few stars, blinking in and out between the thunderheads. There was a sliver of light on the horizon. A lone figure sat on the tail end of an old pickup, silhouetted against the barely visible landscape. An errant breeze brushed the hair that escaped the Stetson on his head. He shifted his weight and crossed his legs, inadvertently hitting the tailgate. The metallic clank was followed by the sound of an owl hooting.
“Glad to know you’re still here. Kinda nice to know some things don’t change.”
Virgil looked down at a darkening world that had always been his anchor point. Some things had changed. The house still needed paint, the cottonwood that stood just off the front porch still caught the air currents, but there was a gaping space where the barns no longer stood. At least Virgil didn’t have to look at the burnt and twisted wreckage. It had been nice to see the cleared footprint when he returned, and to begin to imagine what would go in that space. The horses were moving in the field that ran along the road. They were slow shadows until their rhythm was broken by the sprint and buck of one shadow a third the size of the rest, but with twice the energy. Virgil smiled when he heard the squeal of the foal as it ran.
Beyond the field, the ribbon of road was broken by the headlights of an oncoming car. Virgil had a sudden sinking feeling as the car slowed at the entrance to the ranch.
“No, not tonight,” he said to the owl. “I don’t need any more trouble.”
Then he breathed a sigh of relief as the engine caught and the car continued down the road.