Sinister crows perch on crooked headstones.
The sky is gray, menacing, threatening rain.
Cemeteries call to me.
Eerie and peaceful.
Decay contradicted by buds of spring whispering rebirth.
The ground is watered from tears for lives no longer lived.
Each grave a story, unknown to me, a stranger walking on the earth which contains their bones.
What did they contribute to this world that continues without them?