The old man sat on his rocking chair staring out from his front porch upon the busy vista of the hot dusty street.
Wearing his Confederate jacket, his one hand was rested on a small table grasping a large glass of dulep minty sweet.
Buzzing flies sipped salty beads of sweat from a face shaded by a cavalry hat and the rim of the sugary sweet glass.
Pedestrians greet the familiar figure of the colonel, whilst others wave from horse drawn buggies, as they pass.
The garden’s sweet oleander perfume lingers and lies heavy in the warm air almost masking a sicklier sweet smell.
The Grandfather Clock was silent its tick-tocking usually permeated the porch with its loud rhythm and hourly chiming bell.
A frog jumps up upon the table voicing a loud quizzical Nideep at the strangely still figure before leaping away.
The Colonel unmoved continued to stare out with unseeing eyes at the gathering dusk heralding the dying of the day.