What can YOU say in six sentences?
The beat of the heat is a refrain as we strain toward the hope of rain with dust under our feet and the crust of dried-up ponds mocking the month and the dense blue of the rueful rural sky.
Everyone says the same thing when they gather, palaver, an old fashioned word that has seen other dry-fry summers, and I wonder as we stand there in the hot wind and slow burn which of these be-hatted men are also mourning the loss of lust when the sheet is kicked away by impatient feet and even the early morning is another long wait, grate, uneasy fate, gray slate of un-puffed morning sunrise, then red red red.
There is no poetry in July.
The old timers talk of monsoons, coming always soon, thunderstorm noons, no clouds until midday tunes.
The sweat dampens the bottom layer of my hair and the cold beer in my hand doesn't stay cold, and the conversation is getting old, chances sold, may I put my livestock cards down, fold, hold instead the aces of "weather worries are for peasants," for drought stories told, Steinbeck.
Even those old men look bewildered and hopeless as we speak of shipping cows before they get thin.
The well feels dry right now so I am reveling in your words, your writings, even while I beg my fingers to move across the page with their usual fervor rather than this long slow slog of belabored subject matter and prose. But, I have faith that the well-spring will rise again. Until then, be patient with me, please. With Love. A