Your grass it is turning black
There’s no water in your well
Your grass is turning black
There’s no water in your well
You spent your last lone Dollar
On seven shotgun shells

The cold and the dark.

How it is. How it’s going to be. 

It’s snowing, the boy said. He looked at the sky. A single gray flake sifting down. He caught it in his hand and watched it expire there like the last host of christendom.