Observe Mr. Elliot Holt.

He is disembarking the California Zephyr on a brilliant but chilly January afternoon. As he steps down onto the platform, he pulls a pocket watch from the breast of his frock coat and checks the time- an action which draws several sidelong glances from his fellow travelers. A somewhat surly porter wrestles his baggage- a rough leather case containing a "portable" typewriter- from under a sea of rolling suitcases and duffles. Mr. Holt accepts it with a bow and tips the man- with a gold coin.

As he exits the station and slips on to Grand Avenue, Glenwood Springs Colorado, he illicits a stare from a teenager in a hooded sweatshirt, earbuds all but glued in and Jay-Z blasting loud enough to be heard clearly. Oblivious, he continues down the sidewalk like an actor that has lost his way to the theatre.

You may think that such behavior is product of a sudden shock. A good friend of his has, after all, recently passed away.The truth is, however, that Elliot Holt has clung to an out-of-date worldview almost from birth- although his mother initially took his love of books over television as a sign of genius rather than a symptom of budding psychosis. In any case, death is a subject of particular interest to Mr. Holt, and mortality, even in the form of a friend's demise, is not something to ruffle him. Indeed, in his role in crafting obituaries for the local newspaper, it is likely that a bit less objectivism on the subject might have saved him from the round of lay-offs to which he eventually succumbed. On the other hand, the rather menacing aura produced by his sense of the macabre almost certainly helped in extorting a sizable severance package from the rather ironically named "Post Independent" and its parent company, Swift.

During the course of this aside, our momentary protagonist has arrived at the regional bus stop, hesitated for a moment, and elected to keep walking. He will continue on this path, following a snow packed bike path along a small, turbulent river, for another ten miles, giving ample time to paint the scene in which he will shortly arrive.

The last mountain of the Elk Range- a magnificent double peaked monolith which draws the eye from almost anywhere in the valley- stands sentry over a small town at the confluence of two rivers. The town itself is fairly unremarkable- a historic downtown with a fringe of modern trophy homes and golf-course communities. On the pediment to the East, however, a holdover of bygone days is perched. Nestled against the foothills of the Elks, the Neislanik Ranch provides a picturesque foreground for Mount Sopris, complete with a red barn, a green tractor, and a few grazing deer. Continue along this winding country road, however, and you'll find yourself walking among the tombstones of an aging cemetery.

And that is just where we find Elliot Holt, as the last rays of light linger on The Mountain. He kneels beside one of the cemeteries few unoccupied graves, under the ominous branches of an ancient elm, and brushes aside the snow to read the name.

Hank Dalton

December 29, 1984 - December 31, 2012

Husband. Father. Friend

A female red winged black bird- sporting brown feathers from beak to talon- alights in the elm and surveys the scene as the sky fades from cold pink to warm blue. When the first stars begin to appear, they find Holt curled up at the foot of the stone, fast asleep and dreaming comfortably for the first time in more than three months.