Another ketucari may have called it a small thing, had they noted it at all. The already low stones lay canted at gentle angles that dropped their toplines to a shallow breath above that of the swaying grass. The timbers once etched with words or flourishes had had the fine corners blasted and rotten away until they were indiscernable splinter and mush. In a wetter clime, they would long ago have turned black and soft and washed themselves away. Here in the plains, were they not sheltered fro...
