Against rain, these dry days make no demand,
and settle between themselves a long lost argument.
we have been here before and know the feeling well,
so cloud-shadows make no difference, obscure no reality,
we look to the east in hopes of thunder, to the west it stays
schtum, instead silence gathers, an arid breeze points a finger,
but direction itself means nothing now, even if we realise
it means something else, the dust blames bad planning, a shortage
of outcome, at night people watch the weather forecast,
given in sign, keep an eye out for the next drop.