Sun through skeleton trees illuminates the tall grass with a golden tone. The alfalfa is blooming. Autumn’s harvest moon rising against a backdrop of scattered orange and wavering purple.
The warring people have drawn a line, and promised to not cross into the wheat fields, promised not to trample this sanctuary where the children play.
Voices echo from the east, the laughter, sweet laughter that has been missed.
A childhood game of tag. Tops of bobbing heads appear briefly above the stalks. Zig zagging through winter fields, a small dog chases voice and shadow.
One child searches for others. With wide eyes peering ahead, each movement a possible tag, bragging rights in school tomorrow, if only the landmine did not tag first.
