Butterflies came and busied themselves among the purple floral trumpets. No bloom was refused or thought unworthy of a visit.
Every day the rusting railway lines expanded under the heat of the sun and contracted beneath the starry sky. Wooden sleepers noiselessly crumbled to dust behind their still oily exteriors.
Ants made homes in the gravel. The vixen concealed herself in the grasses. And all the while the good earth turned.