Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, the old farmer gazed into the violet sunset.
He had looked upon many sunsets in his lifetime, and this was to be his last.
The humid summer air, partnered with the caress of a warm breeze, brought a tear to his retiring eyes.
As a child, playing in the golden meadows that once birthed a harvest, he never thought of the end.
Years past, he would slouch in the same cedar rocker, gazing into that very familiar sunset, dreaming of forever.
Now he sits, feeble, and wrinkled, like the ancient oaks he swung from in his youth.
His forever, never came.
