He sat for a time, in perfect repose, his profile projected so plainly, yet clearly.
His face seemed indifferent to the world wrapped around him, it’s color black as nightfall, and he had broken his daily routine of groaning and croaking and singing the same song, the same verses, the same pitter-patter he had always been known to maintain.
He rehearsed it in the shallowness of the day, groaning some fair-damsel tune, with just the second verse and only half the chorus.
But now, his mouth pulled down into sanctuary status, his eye, that can be seen staring with unwavering disposal, his brow curling over the top, and his effervescent green and whitish skin, rigorously vesting his body as if robed in the kings best garment, he sits in static presence, looking more at looking, than one to be looked at aimlessly.
He is real. His pallor is one of business, no pleasure, his age creeping slowly into his well fattened legs. His throat will move, if you look long enough, his eyes will blink, if you can stare.
This bristled aliveness can be heard, not seen, without a source of light, or with the feelings that run across those whose life depends on the water.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Tracy Ruggles
Near Coweta Oklahoma
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