The feeling of waiting for the rain.
Confusion looms on the horizon. Mirages and dirt devils. The dry, tacky sensation of dirt on the tounge in mid afternoons desert heat; the insatiable dusty inferno of a mouth you can’t seem to hydrate fully. It’s inscruciable.
I started growing food in my yard and I started to watch the sky. Corn taught me to cherish the monsoon, heavy clouds laden with life hugging the mountain tops to the west. The great expanse of the Gila drifting for hundreds of miles until dropping abruptly to the floor of the Sonoran desert. Those clouds, ever stuck to that spine of the continental divide called the Black Range.
The summer drifts on and a few rains come. The corn grows slightly taller; the sun seems amused by the struggle.
It’s easy for me in this modern life to wax poetic about the rain, think that it matters and when it doesn’t show up I turn on the hose.
Dryland farmers though suffered and died by the rain. Starving children would make you really really curse the sky.