Moving steadily through the thicket amidst brambles, chorused by rasping cicadas, was a vagabond in dark clothing.
His oak-colored hair ruffled in the wind, contained a few stray leaves, but he paid them no mind, nor did he notice the stickers and weeds clinging to his once-fine pants and coat.
All living things shirked the killing heat but for the irrepressible insects. Grasshoppers attached themselves to the tattered lawn of his shirt. He paused in the glow of a livid sun against a leaning fence post.
He had a destination, but no time by which to limit his meanderings.
Finally the vagabond reached a shaded grove and heaved the burden over his shoulder to the cool earth.
It was wrapped in a very old linen, a once-bright tablecloth that had adorned a fine breakfast room, ages and ages ago.
The vagabond unwrapped the tablecloth to reveal ornate china. Its gold edges glowed beneath the penetrating sun. Like a gentleman settling to tea in his study, he arranged his repast in elegant fashion, betraying fine manners that spoke of gentler times.
He lay back on the linen and contemplated the sky between the branches. The piercing sunlight was but a bright caress filtered through the forest canopy. He savored his tea refreshment sparingly. He thought of when he would reach a town, contemplated his dwindling supplies.
After tea, the vagabond climbed a tree, seeking the cool breeze which swept continually over leaves and limbs. He sensed a pall of listening quiet that was not uncommon in untraveled woodlands.
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