Praying for Rain
Beaded heat layered against her upper lip
blanketed late afternoon sun
the clouds cry the long low rumble of rain not falling
and the river echoes back in thirsty barely lapping waves
the miserable gods of June.
She has a spot beneath the shady arm of the church
a wide brimmed hat and an iced drink exhaling hope
she folds damp hands across the exhausted length of her stomach
interlocks her fingers, grimacing unhappy clammy
The steeple watches the clouds advance
a broad chested phalanx of thunderheads
the street dust dances, she rises supplicant
as she mops her forehead, then tugs her sweat-damp dress
from her waist, one shoulder and then the other.