It is a warm and humid night, the colloquial term is muggy. I and my kind were disappointed again today, no rain. I visit my fields the same as others visit next of kin in the hospital, when loved ones are sick and dying. Daily I watch my acres of nonirrigated corn struggle to live, for the past six weeks hoping for that passing cloud to anoint it with something wet.
I find myself calling after stray nimbo cumulus as if they were farm dogs, big sassy mongrel dogs, teasing them to come to me. Please, I call pleadingly after these clouds, please wander by my field. I realize this is probably the oldest, most intrinsic religion of all, the religion of rain, the hope of rain, please be to whatever gods, wherever they are. Please pleasure the earth with that simple grace, the core miracle of this green-blue planet, please let it rain.
The rest of this content is only available in our print edition.
Subscribe or locate a newsstand.
