Sunset

The old man stared into the west
The dying sun washed the old man
and the rural porch he sat on
in a deep, ethereal crimson

He looked at the rolling hills
The grass had grown dry in the summer heat
The small mountains rose on the horizon
Though green, the experianced, discerning eye
could see that it was a lighter, drier green

The man rose through
the weight of years
that had soeaked into his bones
Before returning inside, he looked north
Lights of the cities he had watched over
for years turned on for the night

The guardian opened his closet
He pulled out a dark blue shirt
Standing in front of the mirror
he meticulously buttoned each button

The watchman stood in front of the mirror
His eyes inspected every inch of the reflection
The very corner of his lips twitched down
The uniform no longer fit

Returning to the closet
he produced a small key
The key opened a safe
The soldier removed the gun
contained in the safe

The weapon was meticulously cared for
Its metal shone in the dying light
The man's old hands fit perfectly
He held it like an old lover
The hands never forget

The old man returned
to his seat on the porch
The sun had almost finished
sinking beneath the horizon
No a shadow reached toward the house
Extending from the mountains

The man, the warrior, the soldier, the watchman
He glanced again at the city that he had served
He returned his gaze to the dying star on the horizon
He barely acknowledged the approached shade
His hands readied the weapon that they had lovingly cared for

The crack of artificial thunder echoed off the rolling hills
Birds flew from their nests, startled by the roar
The grass was painted with the crimson of the dying sun

The man's eyes watched horizon without sight
The last of the disc slipped beneath the edge
The shadow overtook the old man
Darkness covered the hills, punctuated only by the lights
and siren calls of the successors