The prime of America’s youth sits atop brick walls, like Humpty-Dumpty, ready to fall and crack—
Flattened into the ground lies a cast off ketchup packet, lonesome, empty—
A crushed, smashed, trampled Pepsi can rests among the sticks—
Among the grass, an infant pine cone sits, surrounded by its relative giants—
A lonely grey feather lies separated, detached from its home—on the ground without its owner anywhere in sight—
Amid its brothers, there lies one stick, with three perfectly circular holes, drilled, running straight through its side—
As if a part of some dysfunctional family, two stomped-out, compressed cigarette butts lie holding a small, purple ribbon, keeping it from being taken by the breeze—
Outdoor scenery, birthed from nature, and birthed from man.
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