in the end of the year the old men gather around the table, the knife and loaf on the cutting board, the cheese and the pewter pitcher at the side and the old men in low mumbles and coarse beards, creases in cheeks and thick glasses, muttering around the table in Indian summer with the leaves dying on the trees in the sunshine all around them, with the vague voices of hawking vendors on the streets below them, occasional far-away rattle of loose iron wheel rim on cobblestones on the streets below
at the end of the year the old man sits hunched at the table watching the crumbs on the cutting board, the water in tin cup, slight tremoring hands, steady hands of the clock on mantel, the sun on the sill and the shadows, the shadows that deepen as the afternoon wears on with a weary drone, the drone of the ancients all around him muttering words, words, regular creak of rocking chair halfway across the room and the monotonous voice of the clock; a drone, the drone he thinks of autumn bees in fields of dried weeds and dust and pollen in the brittle wind, and sees the watch swung on silver chain across the room, back and forth over the table, suspended by fingers soft with old flesh, knuckles creased
the shadows that deepen as the afternoon slips into evening, and notices a scratching on the roof tiles above, some squirrel or even an owl out for the evening, a scratching that moves up one side of the high peaked ceiling and down the other and comes to rest overhead -- while the steady hands of the clock on the mantel -- begins with a start and a scamper away across the roof and a tile clatters down to the eaves, down to the street from which voices are rising again now stronger, the noise of some uprising in the street, and a stone from the air collides with the wall with a thump, and a splatter, as another tile crashes to the paving stones, and the snow unwinds slowly now in the half light outside the window, slowly at first then whirling, wild, and the wind howls in the chimney. the old man turns his ear slowly to the side to catch the force of the shrieks and cries now angry in the streets below and the howling of the snow that has conquered the light as the last leaf falls, the wind savage in the chimney with blood running over the cobblestones, stones flying against the walls.
the old man straightens with a start
motionless suddenly spellbound
the hands of the clock crazy on the mantel
the man over the silver watch now a weird
lieutenant
old man transfixed
ancient eyes wide under coarse eyebrows
and through the window the burning giraffe on the plain
and death a mad lion screaming in the village --
the old man rises, and cannot stand
until now
he sighs
he shuffles his feet
he coughs through his fingers and breathes again
he stands to brush the crumbs
from his lap
--Amos Stoltzfus
