The First of September

The wood is split and stacked.

We have worked in the high heat of afternoon and finished the job. We take satisfaction in that.

We reward ourselves with a fluid ride across the ridges and into the shaded valleys, leaning left and leaning right over winding macadam, the wind in our clothes, and beneath us the easy thumping of the engine.

The country flows around us, sometimes flanked by corn in silk, sometimes by trees, sometimes pastures; cows move away from the fence as we pass, calves ducking back under the wire.

We stop by the covered bridge to check the level of the creek. The drought is severe.

Yesterday, burning boxes, we watched the grass catch fire, red flame in green blades. It is that dry.

Today the creek is shallow pools dimpled with water striders, the shining surface wobbling with the flex of a trout.

We think of the hurricane nearing the coast, and how many hope for a turn toward the sea, not yet desperate for rain.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved