He sat on a rock. Pine needles everywhere. No earthly sounds save the occasional crash of a dead limb to the forest’s floor. Long ago wolves and deer and titmice scurried about in these woods and now there was none of these things. The skies clear blue but bereft of currents upon which once rode flock of geese and murder of crows. He was alone. No tools with which to hunt, but there was no prey regardless. His mind often drifted back, for it could not be content in the present. There once was verdant green, bountiful farm, meadows upon which his horses traipsed. There was shopping and errands and electric bills and other diversions and now he had none of those. He had himself and a soiled striped shirt and damp slacks and pomaded hair and in his back pocket a Contract With America under which he slept during the cold nights, dreaming of nothing and waking to the same.