He was a standing man of

stone. An iron gate fixed into

ground.  In his eyes was a

tempest of seriousness.

Hands calloused

from years of grappling with

building and tearing down.

His shadow moved under the

caution of direct intent.

He smiles infrequently, only when

mentioning his son.

He carries a newspaper, his

contact with world events.

A scar on his left cheek and

forearm may be from the war,

though no one asks.

Young men fear him. The elderly

show respect.



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