The old men come later in the day, when the sun has already done its work.

They stand a moment, then sit where the rock is low and wide.

One rubs his hands together. Another tests the stone with a palm before trusting his weight.

“Warmer than yesterday.”

“Not by much.”

“Still.”

They watch the light settle on the face of the rock. One nods toward a scuffed place. They sit close enough to share the heat, far enough to keep their own thoughts.

A back shifts. A knee straightens. Time passes.

When they stand, it takes a moment. They brush dust from their hands.

The rock cools slowly after they’re gone..

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