Click, click, click

It never occured to him.  He was rote.

Click, click, click, click, click.

Five times.

Click, click, click, click, click.

They were taps.

They were on his shoes.

Click, click, click, click, click.

Click, click, click, click, click, and turn, and Click, click, click, click, click.

He’d guarded this place for five years.

Click, click, click, click, click.

Back and forth he would walk.

Some days, the monotony would be broken by a rain storm.

Click, click, click, click, click,

and,

patter, patter, patter, patter, “slop” and patter, patter, patter, slop.

He wondered why, in a weird and unacceptable cadence the drops would feed his broad-brimed cap and pitter, and patter, and then, like a shot that rings at revelie, “slop”.

Just like God was that way, you know?  Rythmic, and always, always constant.

Oh sure, he could think (and did).

People, civilians, they would visit, and they’d say “I wonder what is on his mind.”

And he’d walk.

Patter, patter, patter, patter, “click” (for sometimes, he’d click his heels on his turn, for the toursits, mostly)…and he’d think “I bet they are impressed”.

And some days (many, really) no one would show. And alone he would walkd.

Patter, patter, patter, patter, “click”.

And he’d think, “I wonder where they are, and what they are doing.”

Patter, patter, patter, patter, “click”.

And when it would snow…huh…it was SO quiet.

His slick bottom shoes, they’d slide if he didn’t pay them mind.

And there was no patter.

There was a click at the turn.

But all else was silence.

He wondered about the unknown.

He wondered “who was he?”.

But his, his was not for him.

His, his was for Him.

And he wondered…”just who is He?”.

And he marched.

And he pattered.

And,

he cared.

And God, he doesn’t forget those who march for Him.

He doesn’t.

Patter, patter, patter, patter, “click”.

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