I was a drifter, a vagabond, floating aimlessly from town to town. I hadn't eaten a hot meal in months, partially because I didn't have the means and partially because I was worried I wouldn't be able to stomach anything worth more than I was. At that point, I was just looking for a place that would have me for the night, and the next night, and the next. With a little luck, I figured, I might be able to make one of those "livings" everyone else seemed so keen to preserve. It wouldn't be strictly mine, of course; I had long ago recognized that no one gets anywhere on their own. And yet, there I was, standing on the edge of Sycamore Farms by myself, miles away from anyone I could call a friend.
The sun was already starting to nestle behind the horizon, creating an array of warm colors that I'm sure would have been quite the sight to anyone spoiled by normality. But at that moment, the prospect of a roof over my head seemed far superior to having to once again brave the elements, no matter how colorful. I sauntered up to the house--even larger than I'd first estimated--and knocked on the door. The man who answered seemed like the very inspiration for every Western protagonist. As I introduced myself, I could not help but feel as if I were undeserving of his attention. Nevertheless, he listened to my introduction without protest, wrinkles conforming to the sincerest of smiles. I began as I always did: with my story and a plea. He wasted no time in his reply.
"I think we might have somethin' for ya." Even his voice was rustic, filed down over the years into the smoothest timbre. His eyes seemed to radiate a knowing kindness, as if letting me in on the most benign of secrets. "Why don't you come around to the fence?"
Never being one to turn away from serendipity, I nodded and followed the narrow dirt path that curved around the house. As I rounded the corner, I found acres of open fields, green and resplendent, fenced in by neat white pickets. It seemed the very embodiment of American grandeur. The man's voice sounded from my left, stepping down from a porch as he pointed out toward the fields.
"See those?"
His worn finger pointed at a few oblong shapes in the distance. They seemed to roam the grass lazily, rolling along in a way that epitomized pastoral freedom. My eyes widened at the realization of the task set before me, acute clarity and uninhibited elation filling me all at once.
"Well, go on then," he winked, "They won't wrangle themselves."