The grass is dead.
The fields are bled
The clouds that brought torrential downpour to others
right past the farm.
Leaves are turning yellow, shedding,
trees - desiccating.
While tomatillos, they grow well in a Mexican Ontario heat.
We look for shade,
but swelter still.
Sheets dry five minutes on the line.
And the animals,
they save the foraging for another day,
and shelter in the concrete barn.
But one little creature dares to play.
At the hottest hours of midday.
He breaks apart dead bark
and fights for branches with the goat.
He looks for grasshoppers, finds only holes
and a solitary, wondrous snail (again!).
He wears no clothes,
and shoes are but an afterthought.
(he'll get in trouble if he goes without)
is scratched from thorns.
His name is Raynor.
And he is five.
The moral of the story, then:
where we expect only the aftermath of drought,
there is sometimes, also,