The only mourners left;
these summer storms
those winter moons.

Winds that sand
away the names
on tombstones

to flatness as if
no one ever lived
here to farm the fields.

And someday, 
when even the dead
are not looking,

the centurion pines
standing guard
nearby will split,

splinter, collapse, 
from lightening
or ice-laden limbs 

like everything else
in these plains, 
years before their time.