They came by stealth

Any tine of the day, till full dark

But never head high

Always low, near the ground.

He was trying to make a chess piece.

It was his way of challenging himself

Of fitting in with the others busy making things

The storm passed,

a great storm,

full of violence and majesty

Clouds breaking, a little

Sun peaking through shining in patches of gold

Hammers pounding, scoring leather

The scrape of knives on wood

creating chess pieces or arrows or other

shapes of personal interest.

Spinning wheel and clay and water,

producing a pot, bowl, or vase

Brush on canvas, a splash of color

Soon a painting.

He was young, 12 years or so

Typical string bean of those who will be tall.

A mop of curly, mousy blond hair

Under a red ball cap