Drought year,

Everything is dying early.

We realize what is hearty,

And what is not.

Weeds, they multiply,

Even after we spray,

As if they know,

This is their time.

They sink taproots,

And suckle what is left

Of underground aquifers.

We’re breaking heat records in June;

The sweltering, unrelenting sun

Is just getting started.

How many trips to the barn,

Down this cackling road?

The day I saw the barn cat

Kill father Robin–

It was an ominous sign

For the foal.

And then I succumbed

To this hackling cough.

Death is a time for prayer,

Calling out

for whatever hope God can spare.

Cries sent, not into a dark night,

But a hideous brightness.