Smoke witch gathering storm clouds just past the peak of mushrooms litanies of cicadas sing scratchy melodies to blustering winds setting dust flying.
Rain let it rain, end the violent extremes of this desiccated land of summer. Let it rain where brooks once gurgled and rivers rippled, before entire fields vanished and we became the starving..
Anthems of thunder rumble accompanied by bolts of lightning, At last it comes in downpours, sheets flattening in the wind. . . rain-washed black branches blend with overcast gray. silver puddles shimmer. Ankle deep in mud we twirl catching rain on parched tongues; oh the blessed relief. The end of drought and soon seeds of hope will rise green against the dark rich soil, food to appease hunger.
Moonlit gathering, liquid bliss like tears moistens our cheeks as we **** the marrow of acorns and a handful of pine needles, whispering in ancient tongues; Shrouded figures among the trees, a silver eye watches ferns uncurl, We will endure, running full force into the eye of the storm stopping only to gather gifts from earths shadow..