Olegario

Beneath that hat that has always been too big for him, Olegario keeps more years than the oak where he sleeps. He carved his staff across seven winters, until the amethyst sat firm at its tip, tied with old cloth, because that stone has a job: to gather the bad dreams of those who cannot rest. He goes out at night, in his striped trousers and dry-mud boots, and passes by the houses where someone tosses and turns. He doesn't go in. He leans the staff against the wall and waits. The amethyst does the rest. Then he returns to the forest and buries what he gathered among the roots, where the earth knows how to transform. His eyes look tired, but it's only the weight of carrying what others let go of when they close their eyes.