Drouth in West Texas
Posted: July 31st, 2010, 4:33 pm
DROUTH IN WEST TEXAS
Websters Dictionary: drought also drouth; See dry: lacking precipitation or humidity; devoid of running water; free or relatively free from a liquid and esp. WATER.
You don't live in West Texas
without achieving a deep awareness
of the basic significance of Drouth.
Winter. Fall. Spring. Summer.
No clouds, no rain. No prospects of either.
Hot.
Hot blue sky punctuated with the black parentheses
of soaring turkey buzzards,
stands of sallow green prickly pear,
withered pads balancing scant, small fruit on narrow edges;
white caliche dust rising in mocking clouds behind pickups
easing down unpaved ranch roads;
cattle standing patiently in the meager shade
of desiccated juniper and mesquite;
sheep wandering indolently, noses to the ground,
searching for a blade of grass
while on skinny hind legs Spanish goats
poise delicately as Flamenco dancers in silk skirts
to strip edible trees of low-hanging leaves and twigs.
Windmills jerk and turn to blistering winds
straight from Hell's main furnace,
blades whirling, gears squeaking.
At dusk the thirsty livestock begin moving slowly in single file
toward the round cement holding tank
where a gurgling pipe spills water
into a long, narrow moss-stained stone trough.
The ranchers go wearily from well to well,
greasing gears, replacing frayed leathers,
bent rods, twisted fans;
endless, backbreaking labor
to keep the precious water flowing.
Heat lightning capers like a drunken demon
above the parched canyons,
pouncing on mats of dry brush
to kindle red sparking fires
that leave the usually staid landscape dressed
in black lace underwear.
Websters Dictionary: drought also drouth; See dry: lacking precipitation or humidity; devoid of running water; free or relatively free from a liquid and esp. WATER.
You don't live in West Texas
without achieving a deep awareness
of the basic significance of Drouth.
Winter. Fall. Spring. Summer.
No clouds, no rain. No prospects of either.
Hot.
Hot blue sky punctuated with the black parentheses
of soaring turkey buzzards,
stands of sallow green prickly pear,
withered pads balancing scant, small fruit on narrow edges;
white caliche dust rising in mocking clouds behind pickups
easing down unpaved ranch roads;
cattle standing patiently in the meager shade
of desiccated juniper and mesquite;
sheep wandering indolently, noses to the ground,
searching for a blade of grass
while on skinny hind legs Spanish goats
poise delicately as Flamenco dancers in silk skirts
to strip edible trees of low-hanging leaves and twigs.
Windmills jerk and turn to blistering winds
straight from Hell's main furnace,
blades whirling, gears squeaking.
At dusk the thirsty livestock begin moving slowly in single file
toward the round cement holding tank
where a gurgling pipe spills water
into a long, narrow moss-stained stone trough.
The ranchers go wearily from well to well,
greasing gears, replacing frayed leathers,
bent rods, twisted fans;
endless, backbreaking labor
to keep the precious water flowing.
Heat lightning capers like a drunken demon
above the parched canyons,
pouncing on mats of dry brush
to kindle red sparking fires
that leave the usually staid landscape dressed
in black lace underwear.