Leaning back against the boulder, his feet are carelessly waiting on the riverbed.
His socks are like moss, a cascade of dark hair jets out from it's hiding place halfway up his calves.
The endless outpouring of hair flows over his ears and drips onto the arrayment on his arms.
His back is broad and muscular, bound by a black tee-shirt.
His voice whines in his nose like wind squalling through a narrow tunnel.
His trickling eyelashes splash when he blinks.
And he is unaware, thinking of what awaits him in his guitar case.
Perhaps his puddle of sideburns accumulated in the wrong creek.
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