The Man on the Hill

There is a man from the village standing down by his boat. As he smokes he thinks about his little girl and then wonders what they are having for dinner that night. Mostly they eat the fish he catches during the day but sometimes his wife bbuys other things in the market place. Other boats come in and he thinks to himself how hot it is. Later that night they will sing some songs together and he will mend the hole in his left shoe which his big toe is poking through as he stands. And sa the birds fly overhead the children play at home with broken bottles and empty shells. Maybe on the way home he will buy some fire crackers, right after he stops for a beer. He could use a beer right now, it is hot.

Up on the hillside several hundered feet above the shore another man sits in the seemingly sereen calm of a hamock on the veranda, having his afternoon ciesta, sipping rum and pinapple juice from a coconut husk. The rum helps to dissolve the threads of inner termoil as he watces the man on the beach leaning against a small white fishing boat. He thinks to himself how complicated and unrelated are the events that can lead to regret, or indiscretion. He wonders at the seagulls below who's lives are so simple, and yet they soar so high.

The man down on the beach looks up at the hill and then looks away again. He will never go up there. He is not a smart man but he knows who he is and what he wants to be, a husband, a father, and a fishermen. It's not much but he's not smart enough to know how unfortunate he is. The man on the hill gets up, looks down for one last glimps into a world of inocence. He knows he could never live like that, nor would he want to. He walks away curious of the profound loneliness he feels.

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