Hey! I don't know how much I can really say about this, because its somewhere between poetic and philosophical.
>even the slowest dunce thoughtful
that doesn't feel 16th century to me, and even if it was 21st century I feel like the narrator would say something more poetic than that. A bad example:
>could give even the everyman a moment's thought!
I don't feel like I have enough experience in what you're aiming for to be able to critique it more. That's not to say I don't think there's anything wrong with it, it's just I can't put it to words.
Here is a piece from Gordon Macquarrie that has a similar philosophical/poetic thing to it, I think you could learn a lot from it!
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There is something about rain ... A night in summer when the clouds can swell no more and shrink from threatening battlements to ragged shreds over Wisconsin, I often get up from my chair, go to the big closet and speculate over the implements of trout fishing there. Indeed, there is something about rain. Especially a warm rain, spilled over a city or a network of trout streams, It kindles a spark. It presses a button. It is an urgent message from afar to any seeker of the holy grails of angflingdom-- trout.
There is a mild August rain sluicing down to the thirsty earth. There are the castellated clouds, fresh from the western prairie, borne on the hot, dry land wind. And there is your man of the creel and the rod and the sodden waders going to the window to peer out and plumb the mysteries of the rain and wonder about tomorrow.
It must be that eons ago, when the rain splashed down over the front of a cave door, the muscle-bound troglodyte within went to the opening and stretched out his hand, palm upward. Perhaps he even stood there a bit, as perfectly sane men will sometimes do. Perhaps that old sprig of Adam, restless by his fire in the dry cave, felt the friendliness of the rain. Perhaps--no trouter will deny it--he felt the drops on his matted head and wondered about tomorrow.
The rain can beckon a man of the noisy city and draw him to the door or window. Its attraction is so much greater if falls at night, when it is a whispering mystic from afar that seems to say "Get ready, my friend. I am just brushing by to settle the dust and wash away today's dead spent wings."
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That ending hits very hard, it's also very metaphorical yet vivid, I guess those are the only two areas I think you could look at.
Still, good job. The narrator's got character, and I like that!