Sometimes the rain evaporates
before it hits the ground.
It shows up in streaks
down the sky, suspended
over the land. And from many miles
away you can point to those streaks
and say, Look, look,
it’s raining.

This is summer. The crops
are drying. The river changes color
as it heaves toward you
because whatever does fall
washes the iron oxide
down the hills, over the banks.

The horses sweat. The wind picks up
and the windmill in the field
croaks too ra, too ra,
with the voice of an old woman.

She is waiting for the rain to come
and she passes the time with her song.
Too ra, too ra. She will wait as long as it takes.