100 Words a Day 1222

The two men walked across the dry field, so sunbaked that not even weeds could survive. The older one knelt down and sifted a handful of dirt between his fingers.

“Too late to plant crops this year, even if they rebuilt the irrigation canal.”

He stood and brushed his hands off.

“We’d better keep moving.”

They continued. Unlike the fields they had crossed closer to the battle lines, there were no artifacts of the ongoing conflict. Doubtless, this farm had been depopulated by the wave of total conscription that had rolled across the country, and not by sword or flame.