The mist rises from the chilly waters, into crisp dawn air,
and I find myself thinking of all the dead field-mice
their tiny frozen corpses, stilled on the iron earth.
The clouds are pearled by a rising sun,
but silent now, like how we thought it would be.
My bony phalanges scrape over frozen knuckles, as I hurry along.
Their pale pink bellies glow in the light
rashed red and snuffling sneezes catch on the breeze,
as the sickness seeps into the marrow.
The long grasses in mothers yard
grow wild and die in the sun patch, we are too afraid to tend it
and really, there isn’t any point anymore.