Small Story

There in the field where houses once stood surrounded by palisades and earthworks and men dressed for war...

Where the tramp of marching feet made a refrain for the verses of clanging, hammering, shouts, laughter, children, and a thousand other tiny notes that made the cacophony of the day...

There in the place where a baker once baked, scent of bread rich and heady in the morning air, mingling with smoke and damp and the slightly sour smell of bodies living close by, unwashed...

Where hope and despair once dwelt hand in hand, where once the promise of a better life in a new land shone bright as a new penny despite hunger, fear, and uncertainty...

There, where people lived, worked, loved, and looked to a better tomorrow...

There, nothing remains...but a tiny flower begs to be noticed, to remind that Nature is, was, and will be in residence, even when the walls have fallen and only ghosts remain to bring a chill to the curious living who traipse through the grid of forgotten streets, wander across once-was boundaries, wonder about they who lived here, before returning to the air conditioning, refrigeration, electric light, modern world...

Never realizing that they are dreaming the same dreams, hoping the same hopes, fearing the same fears, passed from generation to generation like an unseen heirloom...

All while the tiny flowers bloom, and bloom, and bloom, unconcerned save for our careless steps.