He watched the hawk circling in the clouds, swoop down and pick up its prey. He thought of this, seeing the massive bird carry the squirrel in the sky, taking it back home for dinner.
It was nature, the food chain and all that. Watching out in the woods, surrounded by oaks and pines, hearing cecadas sing their songs, mountain tops with snow on them, and him, just him, alone.
The old man wanted to be alone. That’s what he told everybody. Was tired of folks, television, pop songs, technology. He just wanted peace and quiet. And to wake up each day to the beautiful painting that was the forest.
This was his home. He had a tent and a fire each night. Sitting there, watching sparks fly, eating a fish he’d caught that day. Reading Whitman by candle light, this was his way of spending an evening.
And in the morning to be awakened by that glorious sun with dew dripping from the leaves; he washed his face with them.
To be alone. To be at peace. This was all he asked.