The Drought Farmer Doubts His Guidance Counsellor’s Advice

He might have given too much had the crow at dawn not reminded that saving a little for the next day is how it’s always been done. He held back. Held back when seed casings withered to let the real stuff out. The sun clamped the sprout heads, forceps drawing matter into bright vacuum. He held back when letters came from the bank, wanting to slug the mailman for saying, “Can’t be good news everyday, you know.” As if he made the news. Adding, “Don’t kill the messenger” to the weigh of foreclosure. The envelope mined the valleys between his calluses. He left blood webs on the mortgager’s pen. This day was given for one more roll at good luck. Horse-hair charms like Christmas ornaments strung along fencing, swept curses from the air. He hoped. And he held back when the rains did not. Too much necessity pooling in serious knots along the furrows. And again, when rain forgot what it was...