h1

Dry meadow

A meadow,
Once green,
stringy and yellow.

There,
beyond the blackened tree line,
a fence,
twisted wire,
rusted through.

Bleached bone,
broken,
scattered,
like dice down the barren hill.

A wheel,
spoked,
with hub and rivet,
Like a button mushroom,
entombed in petrified grass.

In the grey distance,
a column of smoke slopes into the jagged sky.

There is no one here with me 
but the wind.

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