Omen

The flowers held on. The sky grayed and the trees lost their leaves in multi-colored piles, leaving skeletons with hands held up to the dreary heavens. The grass died in patches, grubs feasting on tender roots like maggots in rotting flesh until only puddles of mud were left.

No one took it as a bad omen or thought twice or even questioned why, because all across town, the flowers held on. Grassy wildflowers along the road, little splashes of orange and violet amid the dying brown. Carefully cultivated gardens bloomed in full color. In window boxes, tiny red heads with bright yellow eyes peeked up. On fences they climbed and multiplied. The air was thick with perfume.

It was "amazing" and "a miracle" and "a marvel".

By the time the first child died, it was too late to stop.