The Farm
by George Right

The leisurely sunset of the July day washed the valley with gold, filling the world with bright saturated colors like a 1950s film; the rare ruffled clouds in the west simply glowed high in the blue sky, and it seemed that even the unpainted posts supporting the porch roof shone an amber light from within.

A warm breeze pleasantly fanned the face of Fred Marlowe. This was the face of a man who had spent his whole life in the fresh air, weather-beaten and sunburned, grooved with large, deep wrinkles, in the folds of which twinkled small drops of sweat. Grey locks poked out from under a broad-brimmed straw hat. Fred was dressed in a faded checkered shirt unbuttoned to his chest and threadbare jeans worn through at his right knee. His bare feet rested on the boards of the porch, which had been warmed by the sun, and his dusty sandals lay next to them. Fred pulled a wet can of beer out of an ice-filled cooler and pulled on the ring; the cold foam fizzled out to splash him on the arm, and several drops fell on the porch to form small brown blobs in the dust. Fred took his first sip with pleasure.

“Ahhh,” he said, dropping the hand holding the can. “This is so good. Too bad you don’t drink, Jim.”

Jim did not react to this comment and continued to lie on the porch, resting his muzzle on his front paws. Even when some cold drops fell onto the back of his neck from the tilted can, he barely twitched his left ear. Fred especially valued Jim for his calm and imperturbable disposition?so much in harmony with his own.
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