Gnarly trunks cry at us in vast open spaces
The wind rushes, grasses whisper
The stone cries too,
Cool, dusty droplets.
The twilight is calmly tensed for despair.
It's gentleness poised
To crush a resolve in night.
The grasses snigger.
Walking through greying, dying fields
Attracts the urge for grey tears.
The clouds whirl tighter.
It's near, it comes.
