Salvage Artist

The man leaned heavily on his staff but, weary as he seemed, his eyes shone. He shook his head.

“I thank you for the offer,” he said. “But I’ll make my bed out in your field, if it’s all the same.”

He turned, and as he looked up in wonder at the darkening sky, I saw that his back was roped with scars.

“Why aren’t you bitter?” I asked, but he tottered off into the tall grass without a word.

“I guess you might call me a salvage artist,” he called at last from afar. Read the rest of this entry »