Old John Goode moved his tired feet along the worn, gravel road. They were covered in a pair of tattered and slipshod sneakers, the soles nearly worn through and the canvas spotted with matter of a questionable sort. He methodically put one foot in front of the other, humming an old, soft, tuneless song to himself and twirling his fingers around an imaginary coin that had long since vanished into the heart of America’s grand capital commerce machine.
“Jimmy cracked corn n’I don’t care, what?” He croaked out in a phlegm-coated voice. He came slowly to a stop; turning to look behind him back down the long dusty road. The starlight illuminated the evening brilliantly; and the frost in the air, as well as the old empty fields that rested on either side, glittered like the heavens above.
Old John Goode laughed softly and turned back to his slow shuffle, the humming once more stroking the air.
Overhead a night bird croaked once. Old John Goode paid it no mind. His thoughts were on other matters. Matters of the heart, by gum, and he was having none of the old sass Birdman Crow wanted to cackle out.