Although it is nearly midnight, I am not the only one out on my street. To the west, dry sheet lightning flashes; dry thunder booms.

My lanky neighbor holds his garden hose, facing the distant storm, as do I. We listen to its false promises. Then, as if we have come to a mutual agreement, we drop our limp hoses and quietly go indoors. Here, in week four of a drought, cicadas whine for water.