Everyone is gone now. The crows have disappeared, and the locusts have moved on. There is nothing left but dried stalks, whitened bones, and a cold wind. This empty field save for my lone silhouette, this is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence. First, came the rabbits and field mice, eating the last of the corn. Then, the final swarm of infected people staggered through the field, devoured everything. They left no seeds that may sprout in spring should the rains ever come again. Their hunger was so great, they even ate every grub and worm they could find. As they dug their skeletal fingers into the dark soil, anything that moved became their feast. But it was not enough and many fell where they were, dying in the ravaged field.
And me? I’m naught but a scarecrow witnessing the end of human life.
©2019 Linda Lee Lyberg
dVerse Poets Pub: Prosery 5: All Hallows