The Native
Boulder morning. Winter flakes cascading white sky high. Stacked snow: cars, heat lamps, light poles, bikes, trees. Inches. Inhale, stop to take it in. Drift. Awareness. An old man with dark skin and long brown hair approached. He stood in front of me. I looked into his eyes, his into mine. Mutual measurement.
“I’m native” said the man with a cigarette in his hand.
“That’s funny, so am I” said the overgrown boy, proud, ecstatic and relaxed in his Edward Sharpe shirt.
“Where you from?” slightly stumbled his words. Did I sense or imagine a lingering smallpox resentment?
“Earth” was my reply… his eyes squinted.
“Fuck that” and he walked away.
Real Life Tidbits | elijah December 2, 2009
