Drought

Grass dry as dust, like dull sewing needles beneath my bare feet.

Trees desperately seeking for water, leaves wilting, their telltale call of distress.

Sunlight close to my skin, burning white hot as embers in a camp fire.

A bluejay shifts from her perch, blue body stark against these drab browns and dull reds.

Could she know something I don’t, maybe some respite place not too far from here?

For now I’ll make do with resting here in the stale shade under this great thirsty maple.

Maybe I’ll communion with the bluejay, mutually graced with the pains of life.

Normally she would flit between branches and trees, carrying about her day’s work.

Today she rests with all the other birds, well understanding that now is not the time.

She knows this heat is only temporary, September rain soon opening into fall.

How quickly each of us will forget this dreadfulness in the cool of October!

About this time a year from now, perhaps this very bluejay will remember me, and I her,

our shared experience steeling us against the unrelenting tide of seasons.

Together we will once again prevail—I having  learned, she having already known—the

cyclical nature of these things, the natural sinusoidal curves of life, highs and lows.

But, more likely, I will forget all but how it felt, she forgetting all but what what to do.