Lost Love
The air outside my house is in an agitated state. Through my back window the mesquite whips about as does the sumac and the trees along the far fence line. In the front, the eve’s necklace, heavy with new foliage, and the height of a now mature tree is also dancing. Last night during my three-a.m. stroll I stepped outside. The wind in the dog-run nearly knocked me over.
The weather reports this morning speak of possibilities, chances, and threats. They mention rain. In the last days and months, it has come to others, just not us, except in dribs and drabs. I expect it will be the same today and tonight. It will be a pleasant surprise to find otherwise. Meanwhile, I will continue to water by hand from the rain barrels filled by our heretofore meager rains and prepare for summer.
I suspect a hot one. Without rain. The wind, when it comes, will carry away any moisture left by the sun. Soon enough the grass in the pasture will die, as will the spring wildflowers. Burn bans will post. The ground will become hard. We will become hard. Weathered. Worn by the sun. We will seek the shade, but even there the heat will find us. I used to love the summer. I don’t love it anymore.