The Golden Tree

The old man was lying against the golden tree. His hat, made by hay, was hanging over his face. He had a bottle of gin in his hand, but he dropped it and it rolled away with gravity. An army of ants were marching under the old man's crossed legs. He worn a pair of blue sandals covered in dust, and his legs were smooth as those pebble at the river bank.

It was noon and the day was hot. The old man had just finished his lunch, which consisted of a freshly caught trout and a nick of moonshine. His shoulders were bare and dark, almost purple, and he almost had no body hair. The golden tree swayed in the mild wind. Those that sung on its branches had left. The old man rubbed his hard, flat belly and scratched it red.

The fish lines, resting on the rack that the old man built, was unmoving. The stream ran noisily, washing away the old man's dreams. The moist mist of the water tasted fresh and warm, with a scent of scorched rocks. The old man had his fire stones in the sack. He always travels with his fire stones. Not once had he lost them, not even in the rain and storm.

A flock of birds were spotted upstream two days ago. And the old man was confident that they would depart soon. This was his river, afterall. He would be glad to share the products of nature with anyone, as long as they recognize him as the sole owner of this river.

The birds were leaving. They flapped their wings, the sound of their feathers glided above the golden tree.

The old man slowly opened his eyes. The golden tree was gleaming brightly in the sun. Even the reflection on the river's surface could not have shone more gold.

A line was moving, then another. The fish are coming downstream.

The old man sat up and turned to find his water. His lips were dry and his throat smelled horrible when he breathed. He knew he shouldn't have taken that moonshine. But Robert the Maker gave it to him this morning, and he couldn't resist not taking a sip before the night covered him with a blanket of darkness.