The town looked like a mouse under the shadow of an elephant. Clouds that spread throughout the sky turned smoky black; bulging and impregnated with rain. The wind was strong and danced with the leaves on the ground. They twirled in mini tornadoes like nervous ballerinas.

        No one was there, nothing was around.

        Isolation crept in. It seeped through the cracks in the border, and flooded the town. The wind picked up the leaves and brushed them past the dirt roads, and the dirt joined the dancers, and the dirt was suffocated within the spinning. The wind brushed past rocks and twigs and they too were enveloped in the tornado of debris.

        The wind flew by fragments of old signs that once held the title of respected places. But these places were gone now, and no one was here to respect them. It was only the wind left to feel mighty; to be out on the town, to have places to go and people to see.

       The shadows of the decaying buildings orchestrated themselves as fading images on the ground. They lengthen in sun as the days turn into cold, frigid nights, and the nights mould back into repeated days with little contrast to the day before, expect for the wind moving a little more north, and leaving the town a little more empty; a little more alone.