The tawny edges of death color the drought,
The worst in a hundred years they say,
Trees of Fall in mid-July .
The endless heat drains you like a carotid cut.
In the struggle of bucket brigades and hoses,
The falling pond where moss sweeps clear the water,
Even the mud is gone yellow and cracked.
The grey skies have come and gone simply spitting upon us.
The tease of dry dark clouds eats at the spirit,
Not a mosquito whines at an ear - not even one,
The herons stare starkly at receding ripples of brackish muck.
The scientists can battle with politicians until the cows come home.
I just thank God that today came the blessed rain.
By: Daniel A. Stafford