Third person narration of a man at a bus stop who has recently learned that his son has died, violently

The ground holds nothing. It's just dirt. The grass and dead bits of branch; nothing either. Roots of a tree look like veins in the skin of earth, they're empty too. Pale green spots, dry and flaking like sclerosis on its trunk, look like camouflage. The noise of cars are dying groans, roaring, rumbling engines. The bus is here, the man is going home.