The Dry Bone

The field had gone long without rain —
a dry bone in a drier season —
it lay downtrodden beside the dell under a
thick valance of breathless mist,
tasting the decayed rust perching on its parched tongue.

The air unfurled like embers from a searing fire:
rising, tumbling, bouncing, then all at once,
drooping in dew towards the mottled
ground and stirring the few scurried beings
down below the cracked bedrock floor.

Its sorrow tottered on fragile stumps,
weaving with care between loose pellets clay
and swarming flies,
clutching the last brown leaf in its palmed hand
as the earth was once more, coursed with flames.