The villagers toiled to stand tall stones in the fields, once the wildflowers went to seed.
“When the snow’s come,” the elder said, “these markers will lead us home.”
“Why bother?” one of the men asked. “We will do as we always have, and follow our footprints. Why sacrifice time better spent preparing our larders for winter?”
“What of the gales and gusts that efface the past? The sudden, falling darkness? What of the disorientation of fear? You may be stout, but what of the others? How will anyone find their way home when your trodden path is finally forgotten?”
Prompt courtesy of Sue Vincent’s #writephoto.