Last night, the wind hiked up around dinnertime, whipping/ lashing/ ripping at the damp sheets on the clothesline. The sky was blue and innocent on three sides, with a ball of cumulonimbus only to the west. The usual tease. We started to take in the sheets, but they were still damp. We shrugged, and laughed, telling each other we would leave them as a small sacrificial offering. (Knowing it was useless superstition.)
Under cover of darkness, an hour or so later, it poured. A torrent. Overshooting the rain barrel, rushing in a muddy gush down towards the tomatoes and peppers, headed for the neighbor's bare yard on the other side of the wall.
So many days inbetween times. Even the weeds sere, leaves curled. I stopped to count. 16? 17 days? A long heartless death if you're a mammal: dessication. A pain that stretches down into to each of a billion cells. Multiplied like grains of sand. Motes of dust. Pray, pray for rain. Hold out your hands and be ready to catch it.