Swirls of it in the air, more spilling over the edge of the rough headstone. Each grave, whether it was standing straight, tilted left, right, or all the way over lay captive in the summer haze. Where trees once stood only dried husks remained: their leaves long since blown away.
Fires long ago had left blackened sores in the land. Rifts and valleys of trenches dug in attempts to halt the blazes left the earth scarred in deep sunken lines. What little grass attempted to grow here that wasn't choked by weeds was yellow and flaking, straw left where no animal would ever tread again.
Within this basin from hell stood a single ounce of civilization. Pillars marking graves of the dead. Soon, they too would float into the air, their dust joining with that of the ashes around them. The sky blackened by wide soot-filled clouds periodically, the winds whipping them past, desperate to just push it all away.