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 flowed over furrows and rows and dikes.
The fields are ruined, the land cracks and creaks.
The water flows down Granny’s cheeks.