Nothing lasts forever. In this dry windswept prairie where I have spent so much time, my little corner of heaven has become defiled. The Double Tree Glory Hole that once yielded Brown Trout on a silver platter is now a single tree, a lone sentinel singed from an angry conflagration that swept mercilessly across this valley, and everything in its path succumbed. A solitary figure, she reaches out her charred appendages in a cruel effort to grasp at the cool breeze that once was.
