“The grass tips are beginning to turn yellow brown again.”
“From the shadow of the boulder it must be getting close to evening.”
The sweat gathering on his biceps begins to chill making his strain to move the rock up the incline more difficult.
He reaches the crest and let’s his hands fall to his sides.
The stone rolls to the bottom of the mountain.
He sighs, stretches, and reaches for a smoke.
He walks through his own smoke circle swirls towards the valley.
He walks around his eternal burden running his hands over its smooth surface marveling at its coolness and density.
He puts his cigarette out and raises his eyes to the high horizon.
‘Maybe this time,” he mutters letting his hopeful smile glide into a grimace of effort.