Cold, fast, fresh the water from the stream gives one a brief respite. It is a remnant of an almost forgotten time, when soil carpeted the land. Natural, organic, an element of a bygone era.


Solid, hard, plain. Metal now is the making of our world. Steam is the axis it turns on. Water is irrigated through the city.


The fresh springs of the mountains regulated. The regime sees nature as theirs for the taking.


I am alone, isolated. Away from the cacophony of the clanking city beyond these mountains.


This land is rare, a brief patch  of green among a bronze, copper land where nature is deteriorating in favour of a new steampowered world.


A delicate wind blows over me, it is not of my creation. A tree fell, a few nights ago that was not my destruction.


As I walk past the stream, I come upon the fallen branch. I am reminded of the feeling of that night’s gust. The destruction in front of me, leaves me with an all-too-familiar dread washing over me.


Am I too capable of this? This little ability to harm and demolish, to hurt, injure?


My disappearance from the land I used to know has gone unnoticed.


It’s as if I have blown away on the wind.