Rooted

The sun was sinking into the infinite plains of Texas, dyeing the sky shades of orange and lavender so vibrant they seemed painted by a divine hand. A warm breeze carried more than the perfume of bluebonnets; it brought with it the wistful notes of a harmonica playing a tune as old as the land itself.

Up on the porch of a farmhouse weathered by a century of sun and storms, an old man rocked, the creaking of his chair fusing with the music like an age-old duet. His eyes, milky behind thick lenses, gazed out over the undulating sea of cotton, each stalk swaying in time with the wind in a soothing choreography.

Down the dirt road kicked up a caravan of red dust glittering like rubies in the fading light. It was an ancient Ford pickup truck, its rusted edges blurring at the edges as if the heat had made it bleed into the landscape. The old man raised an age-spotted hand in greeting, the motion so ingrained that the oak tree shading the yard seemed to lean toward him in reverence.

The first stars blinked awake in defiance, their twinkles piercing the deepening indigo blanket of night. With effort, the old man rose from his seat. He gulped the perfumed evening air deep into his lungs and savored it like an old friend’s warm embrace.

This land, this eternal cycle of vibrant days surrendering to starry nights, inscribed itself into his very essence. Ancient limestone had carved him from the same quarry, rendering him as enduring as the fields themselves…until the boundaries separating man from earth, past from future, blurred into something magical and infinite.