Of some distant thunder

Water could not keep up with the thirst of the soil. Clouds could not form fast enough to lid the burning eye

of the sun. It stared from sky

like vengeance, turned leaves dry,

pale and brittle. They rattled in hot wind,

fell like chips from a woodsman's axe.

Bloom failed on flowers, aborted to blight curled tight as fists. About our seasonal routines, mending fences, repairing bins and barns,

we went as usual, but our shoes

were heavy; we did not look up

from the crackling grass

to plan for cornfields,

or count on hay,

or ask any more

of some distant thunder

when rain would come.

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