Marching on

The days blur together
as mice march on
through fields of wheat
in a drought, no complaints
as long as they have direction.
The wind is a tease, carrying rain
further away like a shimmering
mirage; none of us stand a chance
when thirsty. The moon takes pity
on those burned in the light
and soothes worries away in the dark.
Marching will continue tomorrow.


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