Pick

It was made from a stick he had found, one of many behind his cabin in the woods. With his worn, but sharp knife, he whittled it down to a point. He sat on the chair on the porch, rocking back and forth. There wasn't much for an old man like him to do but sit and do nothing. Somewhere overhead a bat made a sound. He took the lantern and pointed it in the direction it came from, but whatever was there was gone. The handmade toothpick stuck out from between his lips, dangling. He pulled his baseball cap down so the brim covered his eyes, put his hands across his chest, and drifted off into sleep.