The rains of spring have lasted a year. I hear that in some areas now there are only showers, or perhaps someone said light drizzle. It was always too optimistic to think the rains were seasonal. It would take a decade of downpours to drench this scorched earth.
But the rains come and come: wave after wave of them across from what once might have been a horizon. Now it is just a fog of tears and smoke. And endless deep.
The wet blows through the broken windows, seeps into the khaki, runs down my chest, pouring even as we sleep.
In a village of the desert regions, men and women gazed at the heavens and prayed. A wind was up and clouds were rolling in. Lightning flashed. It never rained in high summer.
The steel structure had arrived in the village a few months ago: a giant totem. The Westerners called it an “emitter”. It sent messages to their god. The villagers looked on in wonder.
But then the palm trees blew and the blue sky grew grey. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, drops of rain began to fall. The villagers shuddered. The Westerners called the outlook “optimistic”.