I write when the river's down, when the ground's as hard as a banker's disposition and as cracked as an old woman's face. I write when the air is still and the tired leaves of the dying elm tree are a mosaic against the bird-blue sky. I write when the old bird dog, Sam, is too tired to chase rabbits, which is his habit on temperate days. I write when horses lie on burnt grass, when the sun is always high noon, when hope melts like yellow butter near the kitchen window. I write when there are no cherry pies in the oven, when heartache comes like a dust storm in early morning. I write when the river's down, and sadness grows like cockle burs in my heart.