Back and forth, the giants march.

A relentless, roaring progression.

Their passing marked by dust.

In their wake, naught remains.

But close-cropped blankness.


Soon, the geese will come.

As they always do.

To pick over the remains.

Harvesting food to carry them.

Far to the South.


But for today, nothing living.

Walks these fields.

Only the mechanical giants.

And their attendants machines.

Are allowed upon the flat plains.