Sunday, July 16

talking july nebraska blues

It's near hot as hell with no sign of relenting, and hasn't rained since early May. The well's going dry; pivots are running twenty-four hours everywhere. On a still day, trucks passing on the gravel road raise dust that hangs for hours, settling in grooves of bleached-out landscape like dirt in fingerprints. When wind picks up we all yearn to the north, like saplings planted ten years ago in a season of wild south wind.
This morning I found the fading body of a robin at the feet of an apple tree. He had stolen blueberries before he died, wings beating wide-alive at the morning when there was still dew.

— CarolAnn