the land was parched from the drought;
the skies held nary a cloud;
the crops had died;
the vines were withered;
dust filled the air;
it was his land, his fathers’ land,
dying without the rain;
nearly all of the folks around
abandoned their land;
his wife left with his son
to go back east to her family
where the land was wet and ripe
for living;
at dusk one day,
he walked down to the river,
about a mile and half away;
the old dog followed him,
as much to drink
from the shrinking river flow
as to be by his side;
he sat down by the riverside
on a log from an old dead tree;
he thought of praying,
but
gave it up:
he didn’t know what to pray;
he sat silently in the dust of twilight
and
then
he began to cry;
he was not sad;
he was not angry;
he just began to cry;
something unlike him,
he just began to cry;
he did not know
how long he cried
but
when he stopped
the land was dark,
the skies had clouds
and
he found his tears
were joined by rain,
the precious rain
running down the banks
to the river,
muting the dust,
irrigating the fields,
giving the land a breath of fresh air;
and
hope.
he rose and began his walk
back home to the small farm house;
the old dog followed at his side;
he slept on the swing
on his porch that night
to smell and feel the rain
and
wondered if his crying
had made his world all right.