It's spring, right? There should be gentle rain and green pastures, not these spiky, dry trees with no energy for opening their green umbrellas
We are in the middle of a drought...a serious prairie fire-hazard that rivals that of the old dust bowl days when acres of farmland simply blew away and deposited themselves in the jungles of Arkansas and Alabama.
I chanced upon this little dugout today--an old house once used by a tough, persistent pioneer.
If he were around, he'd just call this a dry spell.
High up there, the sky is blue and it spawns fast clouds that fluff around empty--clouds without water, like St. Jude's apostate teachers, just great puffs of promise that never satisfy a thirst for life.