A line of blood drawn across the horizon is a blaze that flickers through the wood. We shoulder our tools and we scrape the meager soil. These furrows are plowed in our hearts and in our hands. The dust will descend on our parched and broken fields; so many mouths soon to go unfed. I lie awake and desperate in the small hours. This burden lays its weight upon my chest. I bend and break, I wrack my limbs, I scratch my seed in barren earth, I lower the bucket into the well and raise it empty again and again. Rumbling vastness, a pillar of holy judgement. Hand of the almighty cast us low. A blanket of dust to smother and devour us, sent from the silence into which we cast our prayers. Low—cold—sun descending. Vast, empty, bleeding sky. Sigh, whisper in supplication, ears
ringing with the gnawing of the hunger. Cough, shaking, spent and useless. Faithless, fallen, I turn my back. Three holes, three pine boxes, three wooden crosses: one for our sons, one for our daughters, one for our hopes buried in the dust.

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