There's a drought, they say.
They always do say that, exulting in gloom, squinting a twisted glance upwards, mistrust and prayer spiraling into the blank sky.
Soil sifts from cynical fingers; they are jealous of the deluge on the world's farthest side. Kicking dry clods, it's easy to forget the globe is enclosed upon itself, there is no escape.
Drops denied here rush freely elsewhere.
Words spoken in haste, in jealousy, impossible to call back, will gush forth bitter juice from swollen fruit in due season.
(c) 2022 S. Kirk Pierzchala
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