On the eastern edge of Colorado is the little burg of Bethune. Not much left of it, there are few residents. Otherwise the business district is gone. Lots of vacant lots surround the Post Office and fire house.
Out on the highway the grain elevator is still busy. Trucks shuttle in and out and the occasional car passes by the closed gas station.
The elevator is well worn, makes a roost for the pigeons and a buffet for the prairie falcons. Like the rest of the town is is slowly fading to twilight years.
The school still has enough country kids to stay open and the little yellow buses boil up dust clouds as they hustle the little to and from their school.
When the Interstate was built, Bethune became isolated. No longer was there traffic passing through. Over there a distance can be seen the shadows of passing traffic flying by on the freeway.
There was a family by the name of Pyle that settled on the prairie here and Ernie would stop and visit his relatives on occasion. Few decades back that was a stir in the town. Like so many things in the past, that no longer stirs things up.
Empty sits the gas station/coffee shop. The cars no longer pause at the little town Weeds and ghosts sit around pondering times past.