Chickory stems which marred the perfection of grassy expanses now give the only signs of life in this dry place. It has not rained, not a proper rain, in too long. I miss those rolling afternoon thundershowers that used to spell August afternoons across a booming sky.
But everywhere are signs that this will change soon. The hot months are shifting from springs moist greens to brown burnished leaves, from green unripe apples to blushing red ones, harvests soon to be ripe with the fullness of Autumn. And then the rains will come.
Silver tarnished clouds will fill the blueness and burst out to wash the fruit of the land. Then we will stand, you and I, in the midst of lush golds and reds, a touch of evergreen, and we will joyfully weep with the sky. We will pray that we might never be dry again, and we will praise God for Living Water.