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