Beginning of a new one

The scarecrow's sour, rotting grimace hung limp from its stick.

It's tattered arms scraped a path of wretchedness in the air as they flailed violently in the wind.

Water, tar-black, pooled in guttered soil.

Field-fronds of wheat watched wild birds slip, sinking into the closed, dark, density of cities with no souls.

And heavy poured the rain.