Repositories of the Morning Mail.

The air was crisp in that rural village where I sketched these mail boxes.  Frost lay on the ground, like millions of tiny diamonds, sparkling in those first rays of a burnt orange sun, heaving itself above the distant horizon.
My fingers were blue with the cold, and  I was blowing on them as this stranger appeared at my side for a chat.  I thrust my hands deep into my pockets, for a bit of warmth,  while we exchanged a few pleasantries, such as the state of the economy and the mothering instincts of a clay pigeon.   He appeared to be dying to ask me what I was doing, as if it wasn't blatantly obvious.  Eventually, he got around to suggesting that the landscape, in this neck of the woods was quite something.  I had to agree with him on that score, but reminded him, that was not what I was doing.  "Oh."  He said.  "Well what are you doing?"  I pointed to the mail boxes across the road, "I am interested those boxes over there," and opened my sketch book.
"Good God man, what the hell do you see in those things, they are a blot on the landscape."  With a quick "see ya,"  he ambled off down the road, in the direction of what I assumed was his home.  As he crossed the verandah, I heard him say to someone beyond my line of sight.  "You wouldn't believe it, that dickhead over there is sketching those old mail boxes!"
I had to smile, he was probably right about the dickhead bit.  Here I was sitting on my stool in the cold, freezing to death.  But then I was not all that concerned what he thought,  I was enjoying myself and what I was doing.  I saw numerous shapes and sizes that appealed to me.  One or two appeared to be newish, introducing recent immigrants to the district, while others proudly displayed their battle scars through years of conflict with the elements

My recent visitor, obviously having lived here for many a year, just took for granted these 'repositories of the morning mail'.