The wood was gone. What stayed there still
was a yellow, shaved-off, bald-headed hill.
The sun came out like fiery flames
that burned up Gramps' little dried-out fields.
The rain fell slick-slack-slick-slack-slick,
It furrows and rows and dikes.
The fields are ruined, the land cracks and creaks.
The water flower down Ranny's cheeks.