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.