The black high-water marks
around his ankles reflecting
the flash of rain
that rushed through the valley so early.
He stood, soles to rugged planks
of the one room cabin,
breaking a small package of crackers
in preparation for the Lord’s supper.
“The bread of life, take and eat.”
He took the battered thermos,
twisted the pitted metal cap,
it clanks to the side on its worn chain.
He filled the cup with the milk
he had gathered that morning
in the sunlit sanctuary of the barn.
“The cup of salvation, take this and drink.”
The row of stuffed animals, broken dolls, battered trucks
in reverent silence.
Across the morning, a child laughed.