Another Dakota Summer
Posted: Friday, 26 October 2007 |
No one could quite recollect the last rain. Grandpa reckoned it was the worst heat wave in 35 years. He was an old cowboy then. His blue work shirt had worn thin from years of toil.
The creek over yonder ran dry, leaving catfish to fester under a cruel Dakota sun. Only cracked clay remained. Turkey’s roosted on a dying cottonwood tree, like ripe fruit on each stark branch.
Gramps studied the horizon, leaning on the porch banister. The log rail had been smoothed by the hands of our ancestors. No rain clouds, only billows of dust on the lonely prairie.
The cowboy shed his battered hat and closed his tired eyes. No one would suspect the ornery cuss (between muttered curses at the dogs) had been praying for rain.
[Just some prose poerty about the ranch in South Dakota my father grew up on. Memories of my American Grandfather, who died slowly of cancer, inspired the piece. I treasure the memories, but I will never live there again. Shetland is home.]
I live like a hermit in an island paradise, planning my survival of the impending apocalypse.
My mother is a Sheltie and my father is American. As a dual-citizen, I have lived between both cultures. I only use my UK passport these days. I made the Atlandic leap, back to Shetland. This is the only place I ever considered 'home.'
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