Gordon Sorensen An old dog, the color of burlap bags, walked out the doorway of the screened porch and watered the rusted leg of a brass double bed that sat in front of it. A flight of geese winged overhead and the dog nosed the air and the hair rose along the back of his neck. He sat down in a clump of dried grass and scratched the matted hair on his neck with his hind leg. One of his ears had a tear in it, and the scar showed pink under the hair. He walked around the back of the house, smelling the clumps of grass he passed. Pulling a rag from the trash pile he lay down on it to wait for his master. The sun came up from behind the mountains, and its first fresh rays warmed him and he watched the ducks fly up from the glistening surface of the pond. He heard the hermit move in the cabin and watched the first curls of smoke rise in the yellow sunlight from the chimney. In the light of the sun the salt grass turned deep red, and dark shadows fell on the alkaline soil. The house, made of cinder blocks, had two rooms with a porch made with a half wall and the rest screen, covered by a tar-paper roof. The double bed in the front yard had sat there for years, and the shiny brass had tarnished in the weather. The mattress had holes in the faded pink cover and the cotton filling spilled out at the edges. Rats and field mice had made their nests in it or had carried off the cotton to pad their nests in the marsh. The door of the screened porch had been broken off so that a strip of wood still hung to the upper hinge. In the corner of the porch a pile of rags made a bed for the dog. The hermit had cleaned his ducks on the porch and left the feathers there for the wind to blow away. Old magazines lay scattered all over the porch floor, and the wind had blown rain in on them and faded the colored covers. Two ducks hung on a string around a rusted nail on the back wall. The blue feathers in the wings glistened purple and red in the sun light. Inside, the hermit adjusted the draft and warmed his hands over the fire that leaped up from the open plate of the stove. The light from the fire waved in the cool air and reflected on the wall. He looked out the window and watched the dog sleeping on the rag. The mist of the ponds made 14 blue veils among the reeds and cattails. He opened the window for a moment and threw a half-eaten duck to the dog. The morning air cooled his face, and he smelled the dampness of the marsh. The dog growled and tore at the carcass. The hermit closed the window and turned back to the warm fire. He went outside. Picking the axe up from a pile of coal at the side of the door, he walked to the wood pile. He cut the wood in short thin lengths. As he did the axe tore the dry wood, and splinters cracked and dropped on the ground. The axe fitted his hands, and the sweat of years of use had colored the wood dark so that cracks showed in the handle. He stopped to rest, and his breath misted away into the air. Looking toward the mountains he listened to the cars that moved far away on the highway toward Brigham. The sun filtered through the dried grass and reeds, making a dark world of shadows on the ground beneath them. He finished cutting the wood and stacked it in his arms and went back to the house. The slivers of wood pricked at his flesh, and he smelled its piny odor. He pressed against the door with his shoulder and walked across the dirty floor and threw the wood in a pile by the stove. Going back, he shut the door and picked a tea kettle up from the table. He filled it with water from the single tap that hung over the sink. Then he placed it on the stove. As he waited for it to boil, he sat down and made a smoke. His eyes wandered around the room. Books and magazines lay scattered all over the other chairs. Dirt and paper lay on the floor. Flies crawled across the yellow ceiling or licked a dry crust of bread that had fallen on the floor. Two dirty plates lay on the table made yellow from the yolks of eggs, that stained the white cracked porcelain. A knife leaned against one plate; a fly danced on the tarnished handle. The house smelled of sweat and moldy bread. The light from the window reflected on the bottles of wine that sat on a shelf across from the hermit. He wanted a drink but he knew he'd better not. Feeling sick inside, he remembered the pain he had in his chest yesterday. He coughed and sucked quick gulps of air into his lungs. His grey hair, shadowed with black streaks, blended with his beard. Tobacco smoke had stained his beard around his mouth. His blue eyes were hazed with white from age. He had on bib overalls and a blue plaid shirt. His dark brown neck stood out behind the neck of his underwear. The dark flesh hung loose about the bones of his fingers. He lifted his hand and scratched the thick stubble of his eyebrows, feeling the deep wrinkles in his forehead. He got up from the chair and went to the window. Beyond the sagebrush and dried grass the pond showed through the marsh cattails. As he turned he saw the bottles 15