Mornin’, good folk, wanderin’ folk, and them what don’t know which way’s up,
It’s Harry again — soot-smeared, dream-caught, and listenin’ to the whisperin’ of old cans and older winds.
Today, the rails brought me somethin’ rare: not a sign, nor a coin, nor a lucky feather, but a man dressed head-to-toe in black, shinin’ like a crow in new rain. A missionary, fresh-faced and full of thunder, caught me settin’ my cans in their sacred circle ‘round a burnin’ hubcap.
He watched a spell, arms folded like a bad hand of cards, and then he cleared his throat real loud, like he was about to read me my rights in the name of somethin’ big.
“You’re wastin’ your soul on foolishness,” he said, all fire and brimstone.
“These cans, this smoke — it’s superstition. There’s only one truth, one way.”
Now, I ain’t one to pick a fight — most days, I’d rather wrestle a raccoon for the last crust in my bindle than argue philosophy. But today, the cans sang a different tune in my ears. Today was a teachin’ day.
So I tipped my hat, threw another stick on the fire, and invited him to sit.
He preached a spell, quotin’ chapter and verse, drawin’ lines in the dirt like battlegrounds. And I listened, polite-like, whittlin’ a twig down to a toothpick. When he finished, starin’ down his nose at me like I was a cinder in his Sunday stew, I gave my say:
“I reckon,” I said, “you and me ain’t so different. You see signs in a book. I see ‘em in a trash fire and the bottom of a bean can. You hear voices in a chapel; I hear ‘em in the howl of the rails and the cry of a crow. You walk by faith — so do I. Only difference is, my church ain’t got no walls, and my god don’t mind a little soot.”
He opened his mouth to fire back, but then he stopped, like a busted watch. Thought about it real hard.
Finally, he smiled — small, but honest. Tipped his hat back to me.
“Maybe,” he said, “your way ain’t so foolish after all.”
And he left me there, under a breakin’ blue sky, hummin’ a tune that didn’t belong to any church, any book, or any law. Just a song made of road dust, firelight, and stars.
Tonight, the cans clatter gentle in the breeze, whisperin’ of far-off storms and nearer blessings.
And me?
I sit by the fire, feelin’ mighty rich — not in coin, nor in converts, but in the knowledge that maybe there’s a thousand ways to find the divine.
And sometimes, it looks a whole lot like an old hobo and a young preacher sittin’ peaceful by a trash fire.
Yours, soot-smeared and soul-deep,
— Hobo Harry 🌙🔥
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