A nude man stands alone, a gnarled sentinel, weathered titan in the empty field. One of his large hands holds aloft a black umbrella. He is rooted in the shadow, in the blacker. His face avoids the light, brow furrowed. His eyes are gray, ocean gray, the color of lost ships. Afloat on a sea of wrinkles. Deep lines. His beard is an avalanche, the dream of birds. There is the sound of rain, but heavier. Heavier than rain, Heavier than water, the stuff of tears. This is more. Small knocks on the top of the umbrella. Like the heartbeat of lovers separating. Like footsteps in an empty house. This is a rustling, a room of children. There are flowers falling from the sky. Scented arrows. Roses, magnolias, poppies, daffodils, irises. They are falling on the umbrella. The flowers are falling off the umbrella. They never touch him. They pool on the ground. Lonely, begging for the eye. A nude man stands alone. The wind blows through the empty temple and leaves with a shudder.