So

The man began his day sweeping dried leaves from his verandah, the fallen messages from the mountain ash.
Autumn and Winter had passed and Spring in the hills blossomed.

A weevil landed on his wooden brush handle.

"Old man, your sweeping reminds me of my time at a zen temple. I would stare at the monks slowly making sand gardens and wonder what truths lay in those rills of grains. When the monks knelt for za zen I would walk round the sand lines until hours later I reached the rock in the middle. I would stare at that rock until the monks lit candles and retired to their futons. In many ways I am still walking those rills".

The weevil walked off and left the old man alone again.

"So," he said and carried on sweeping his leaves.

A lynx came by and sat on the wooden deck. It licked it's paw with it's eyes half shut. Taking it's time it licked it's other front paw, flattening it's fur and giving it a wet sheen. It looked up.

"Old man. Why do you sweep leaves. No matter. It does not concern me. My time is precious. My mind is a clock fuelled with blood. My belly a furnace fired with life. My purpose to eat and eat and make more like me so they can eat".

The lynx caught a vole and chewed it's head off. It slurped the stump like a lollipop and devoured the rest in a single chomp. It left.

The man stooped to gather up one of his piles of leaves. They rustled like torn pages.

"So," he said and carried the litter to his basket.

Stretching his ancient back he noticed a crumpled letter among the leaves.

Carefully opening it he held the thin paper in his hands and read the familiar scrawled handwriting.

To whomever it may concern. I, myself, leave upon my passing the things I have accumulated in my life to the creatures of the world:

Sand for those who seek their answer in fields of glass. Let them be.

Blood for those who's gospel is a hymn of bone, muscle and knowing. It was always thus.

Stone for those who shelter from rains of fire and winds of poison across the earth. May you prevail.

The old man folded the letter carefully and slipped it in his pocket.

"So," he said and carried the basket to the compost heap.

As he tipped out his fresh load he looked up and saw a missile arcing across the sky. It left behind it a trail of white fumes. It would land and explode in a distant valley.

The old man hurried inside his concrete nuclear shelter on the mountainside, around which he'd built a verandah decades ago. He shut himself in and waited for the atomic blast to burst forth and the terrible fall-out to subside overnight.

He would have to wear his mask tomorrow and probably all week.

"So so," he said and after placing his letter with the others he made some tea.