General

The river is a trickle. After so many months of no rain it is barely a stream moving listlessly over the stones it usually disregards in its swift passage to the ocean. There is no wading over it, no swimming, no jumping in, now we can step across it and still have dry feet. The marsh plants on the banks are wilted and weak. The edges of their blade-like leaves are yellowed where they should be green and they hang close to the ground.

General

Cracks grew deep in the barren, parched soil like a wizened old face, baked hard, no more hospitable to the delicate seeds than a scorched rock. Should the four horsemen pass this way, the hooves of their magnificent steeds will surely make no impression on the ground. The clatter of the hooves will echo around the desperate landscape like music calling the people to their final rest.

General

The earth grows wan and weird, defertilized, dehumanized, neither brown nor grey nor beige nor taupe nor ecru, the no color of death reflecting light, sponging up light with it's hard, parched shag and shooting it's back at us...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, May 2, 2012.

Found in The Colossus of Maroussi, authored by Henry Miller.