Sometimes, there is only nothing. Nothing stretches to the horizon ahead and back over whence you came. Nothing is all there is. Left, right, ahead. Behind.
The world is encased in crust. Covered in a hard shell that makes your legs ache with each step and the dog’s feet bleed. Mostly, the dog skims the crust as if it is nothing while you post hole, breaking through, falling sometimes. And there is nothing.
A month ago, there were eight coveys of Huns on this moonscape of stubble to the sky. A month ago was a month ago. Now is now and all there is is nothing. So you plod and plod and plod and break through again. Your calves ache. Your thighs. It is a day at the Good Lord’s gymnasium. Or perhaps that of His alter ego. You break on, following the dog, whose attitude never wanes despite the nothing. She is out hunting and that is everything even when its nothing.
There will be no birds before the gun today. No points. No meat for a meal. Only nothing. You plod on because that is all there is and all you know. Nothing.