she walks down the ruined road, passing the cracks where the lightning has struck so many times before.

behind her, telephone poles reach up into the sky like knitting needles with thin wires between them. birds sit upon those wires. they watch her from their perch.

we watch her.

we could kill her now. we could have killed her many times over. it is not her time yet. not when she still walks. not when she still moves forward.

sometimes she stops and looks up into the sky. she remembers in the old days, in the time before, when her parents would insist on them going stargazing. she would look up into the night sky and try to count the stars.

she no longer counts the stars. when she looks up into the sky, she does not see possibilities. she sees only her own loneliness reflected back on her.

we have ruined the sky for her.

she does not stop for long, though. she continues her walk, with her rifle slung across her back.

she walks with a weariness in her bones. she walks without pausing, without stopping. she walks.