Dry Zone
In the woods, the little bridges are still there, but the streams they cross are running dry.
In the meadows, the earth is bare, cracked, hard-packed. My shoes scuff up dust. Even the grass has stopped growing as quickly as it usually does in June.
From the looks of the sky today, though, I think we’re in for some relief. I’m imagining great sheets of rain, the ground soaking it up, the small runs flowing again. And later, how easily the weeds will give way. I’ll pull them up by the fistful.
