The Field of Miracles

The silent crow approaches. My hand stretches out to clasp the last red petal, that is just out of reach. There is nothing but the dingy dank darkness as the yellow smoke curls in angelic beauty. A torn khaki jacket flutters, caught on the barbs of a field of faded rust, as a solitary butterfly hovers over a naked stem and leaves a line of silver pearls that glisten in their newness. I think of home and a life that was long ago but it was only yesterday and I cry for everything that is forgotten. It is for King and country. Life endures.

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