An uneasy collection of dust raises up from the field of stubs. It looks like a coin tossed but wobbling circles before coming to rest on a table top. But like Lazarus it rises skyward. Unstable warm air dances above the ground holding the ochre dust hostage. There’s an invisible man smiling.
Three rib bones curl away from the field. Just enough to draw a raven to perch and look for scraps. It’s call bemoans the lack of flesh. His black glossy eyes regard the whirling dervish. It’s column brought his eye this direction anyway.
The field months departed by the combine. The belly of the scavenger feels the lose. Mankind has a cruel surpretude past with scavengers. Today is no different. The column flashes tiny gleams of light outward.
The scene is desolation meets obsolescence. Old truck with an open hinge where the hood once sat, stares at the raven with cracked eyes. The wind uses the tin metal barns as a harmonica to call the tune of the dusts dance.
Between rusted barbed wire fencing. Stretching down roads more dirt than gravel the pace of life is measured in death. Separating what rises and falls is all about who is carrying it. And by the hand or throat.