Running

    Water-stained light was starting to seep across the flat rooftops, but her eyes were on the trees. Dead and twisted, they stretched like skeletal spines against the sunrise. As sweat stung against her eyelids, the runner found herself wondering how long the maples had persisted in gasping for air. Had they grown faster then? Clawing desperate fingers towards the malicious sky, they must have clung to life until the last shreds of leafy flesh had been torn from their bones. Or perhaps all trees died standing up, yielding their spirits to the poison winds of this ruined world, leaving carcass woodlands as a painful reminder to those who still must continue living. The Runner ran on, and wished the trees had continued their fight. She was forgetting how to breathe.