He hunkered down,
reached to gather the dry earth
then letting it sift back. "Dust to dust,"
looking up at me. "Perhaps,"
he said, "perhaps this is the summer . . ."
"Cain began it here,
furrowed and lost."
His eyes scan the fields,
dust dispersing -- smoke
of bloodless offering in disregard.
"Hunger crouches in our doorway.
The earth has always been my brother
but his mien is slight these days."
Looking up again, "Sometimes
His blood is not enough."