PLOWMAN

When I rode up to my farm I hardly recognized it. The cabin I had built with my own two hands was nothing but some charred timbers as was my barn and most of the corrals. My crops hadn't been planted and my plow was still in the ground standing as a testament to what I had started to do. I got off my horse and walked around the place. Memories swarmed, but I couldn't quite grasp them. I could see them, knew I should be able to feel them but there was nothing. I found the graves then and I just looked at them. It was as if tis wasn't real at all and I would wake up, should wake up, but I couldn't. I stared at the wooden crosses and then I began walking to my horse. It was time to start. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something in the weeds. It was my old shotgun, lying where it had fallen from my sons hands as he had died protecting his mother.