The shovel makes a crisp noise as it slides into the earth. It is brisk, no kindness, cut off as soon as the blade halts, no lingering or wistfulness. Of all implements, this is one knows it’s function and doesn’t weep for something nicer, or more romantic. It is a businesslike end. No more.

The corpses stand to one side, watching with varying degrees of fear and resignation. Life has become increasingly tough in recent years, and it is interesting to separate those who look dully, bordering on relief that are least it will soon end, from those whose eyes are still alert, darting from tree to tree in search of an escape.
Of course, that does not preclude courage. Most will still go where they are told, obediently if not willing. That’s the trouble with the religious. They’re always waiting for God to save them.