Our homeless man scales the damp bog beneath the bridge from whence he comes every day to greet the sun and the light. He wants his presence known and his hopes understood but the common folk go about their business, and the well known folk have important places to be, so he sits within his quiet. Alone.

He has a little group of friends but even they have other places to be and other things to do, so our homeless man rolls tobacco and waits for his hopes to land.

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Yesterday, as the three of us were headed back from our walk, our town's homeless-man was sitting in his usuall place near the bridge he calls home. He always waves and smiles. Sometimes, we'll see him in the Diner, hunched over a bowl of soup. We assume the best case scenario, that kindness is a dish best served free. 

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