Rambling Men

    In the late fall rain, they stood in a line.  Their robes clung to their broad shoulders as the one in the purple stepped forward.  He placed the bronze plaque in its spot on the wall; a black wall from times gone past.  The many names upon that wall had meaning once, long ago, when men build skyscrapers and soared through the sky in metal machines.  Now, the overgrown vines and trees had to be cut away for the latest victim.
    “Zekaria was a good man,” said the purple robed leader, pressing his weathered, callused hand to the plaque.  “He gave his life for us.  He died for our sins so we can live.”
    “Amen,” said the others, bowing their heads.  On leather thongs, holy emblems hued from stone dangled.  Fingers caressed the rough circles dissected by crude, wooden arrows.  Symbols of their crime, their fate, their destiny hung around their necks.
    From the woods that conquered the white ruins, they came.  The first few strident few carried bows.  Quivers of arrows draped over their shoulders and under their long, wild manes of hair.  Their soft doe clothes followed the curves of their muscular forms.  They were the guardians come to collect what by ordained, natural right was theirs.
    “That’s enough of that” the dark haired one barked.  The dirt camouflaging her face didn’t cover her mocking snarl.  “He was lucky to last as long as he did.”
    “Didn’t offer much sport, though.”
    “Easy enough to tear apart with our bear hands.”
    “I liked how he screamed.”
    The other women laughed, shouldering their weapons.  The men turned with their faces cast downwards, mostly to hide the tears unbidden.  They shuffled through the tender blades of rain-kissed grass to make their way to the path.  As they passed, each lifted his eyes to meet the fairer sex.  Each smiled a secret smile.
    Each knew they were strong for carrying such a burden.