A lonely prairie,
A house in the middle.

Dogs, the laughter of children traveling outward,
Meeting no obstacles,
Eventually fading into nothing.

A creaky wooden door takes you inside.
Steam rises off a hearth glowing with heat,
Meat roasts on a stick.

An old man,
An old woman,
Silence but for the crackling of moisture expanding and splitting wood.

A gnarled wooden broom leans against a weathered bookcase;
There is still time.