A Prayer For The Parched

The monsoon has arrived.. or has it? Each day as dusk approaches the sky darkens to a rich velvety hue, the sunset glows deep oranges and reds, the wind picks up a bit and the walls of dust creep in from the east. And the valley waits and collectively holds it’s breath and watches as the lightening strikes dance across the horizon, and the thunder cracks like the beat of a drum at a tribal rain dance.

And so it goes… evenings are planned around the impending storms and there’s talk of easing the multi-year drought. We ponder the wildfires and comment on the rain that will put them out, never once acknowledging that the torrent of new lightening strikes will surely start new fires. The tales of violent storms past are told and there's a nodding thought to the possibility of much worse. Everyone, it seems, is dressed and ready for the ball.

And so it goes… all dressed up, with no where to go. For the humidity that makes us miserable – sticky, sweating and sweltered, and the dust that invades like ants at a family picnic, are alone in their onslaught. For there is no rain, no dance partner, no watershed, no easing of the drought, and no quenching of our parched land. We are left tasting dust in our mouths and the lonely feeling of having been stood up, yet again.

And so it goes… day after relentless day of heat, humidity, dust and thunderstorms. It comes and teases us like a lover would. Smiling down upon us, not with the rain we so desperately seek, but with a stunning show of Mother Nature’s finest work.

As Mother Nature continues her striptease and the fireworks dazzle us with their brilliance, the anticipation grows and we wait with baited breath for the rain that surely must be about to fall.

And so it goes… another day spent on our knees, with our heads bend in silent prayer for the rain we so desperately need.