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.