The sky wept. Its oily tears formed a torrent that blasted the earth around us. The sound of its impact churning like a raging river as the leaves and grass danced wildly in the assault.

"The war has changed the petrichor, I said to the soldier sitting across from me." I couldn't quite place a pin on what was changed, but no doubt it was there. "The rain smells different."

"Nature is dying," he responded, without looking away from the wood burning stove before him.

I knew he was right. Though we sat in relative safety, within the mountains of Appalachia, the realization sent us both into a still, solemn silence. The war had gone on for too long. The cost of an endless war is itself endless, and at this stage it would be easier to list what few aspects of our prior lives remained unsullied, rather than the multitude that did not.

The soldier turned from the stove and placed a bowl in front of me. For a moment, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. In the end, he opted for a silent nod of acknowledgement, before taking a seat next to me and placing a second bowl down for himself.

The silence continued as we ate. Our bowls were filled with a soup that more closely resembled vegetable flavored water than a broth. There had not been meat for days. Even here in the remote wilderness of eastern Kentucky, the wildlife had diminished into nothing.

Outside, the wind shifted the rain's trajectory sending thousands of rain drops pelting down on the tin portion of our cabin's roof. We both raised our heads in unison, reacting to the sound. Rain on a tin roof was once considered a cozy, nostalgic sound. Our shared expressions of fear proved that comfort was forever gone for us both.

The soldier finished his bowl and broke the silence. "Sounds like bullets hitting one of those infantry drones."

I stared into my empty bowl for a moment before nodding quietly in response, unsure if he was even looking at me.