Crops crave for water at a hill
Thirst visible on their stalks
The sky gushes a coal black
But no. It is not rain.
Nothing to quench a crop’s thirst.
Only the manifestation of darkness
roaming the skies
And yes. Walking on a road, intimidated,
Before me, in the distance:
Nothing but dead man’s hill
But now a smirking old woman:
Silently still.