"The Mason, or Still the Morning Peaks"

[J. R. Parks]

Every man is a temple razed and every man is his own mason. Amidst crackling wagons, awash with blood and powder black, a filthy mason strides atop the bones of unfortunate dead. The rifle bobs at his hip, the jostling ring of spurs clatter over the awakening flat. The dried sign of horses speckle the road, steaming wet in the dawn. On wicked men he ponders, on lost trails and the unsown tapestry of creation, and how there live those that despise it as if the very offering of fellowship were an insult to them. Pale, gray wisps mark the ragged camp wherein curs slumber with souls of sand, yet still the mason marches and still the morning peaks. 

[Kristine_ES]

the first sentence really did it for me. the idea of this will follow me around for some time.

[Teresa]

There's a very nice rhythm in your writing, a poetic cadence, "Amidst crackling wagons, awash with blood and powder black". 

[Paul de Denus]

Hints of McCarthy's Blood Meridian- a wallop of JR Parks-great!