Mounds of dirt piled high. Holes in the earth. Stacks of aluminum siding stretched as far as the eye can see. Roofing shingles scattered. Cement trucks making their way down a dirt road. Addresses marked on curbs.

Amish men dropped off at the job site. Vans pull up and doors open. Beards and hats. Beards and hats. The pounding of nails at daybreak. Saws ripping boards in two. Bricks stacked one on top of the other. Trees cleared. Suburbia will be here soon. The future is in our hands.

Lakewood will be the name; no lake, but a pond in the middle with signs that say, No Swimming. Kids will sneak out at midnight for a naked dip.

Farmland sold. Generations of those who worshipped the sun and prayed for rain are now gone; moved to Florida or Tennessee to live in double wides. A history left behind. Their kids didn’t want it. Nor did the grandkids. So much for soil being in blood.

Now is the time for progress, they say. We’ll eat meat made from plants. Drink milk from nuts. Artificial Intelligence will write books. Don’t worry. We can always make more. What will it cost, man? What will it cost?