|
He told me they'd never lost a crop in January. I referred to last winter's spare snows and asked if farmers could depend on water tables and capillary action to provide. "Provide?" He raised his voice. "We've never lost a crop in January!" I said this all seems more like change in climate than simple change in weather. I said this was different -- bigger than local weather -- a hemisphere of deeper lows and slower-moving highs and narrower gradiants and more powerful storms; I said something ... something wicked... He swore at me. He called me a jinx. It's May, now. Here we are, submerged beneath a restless sea of air. Its waves? Breakers. The distance between peak and trough? Minimal. The height of each wave? I don't know, but down here we can see the dunes rippling with the effect of the undertow. The drag. Along with these expansions come things wicked. My plains are being blown fallow by the storms of this aerial sea. The night wind seems driven by incubi. The dry, cold rush floods up- wind nostrils and breathing is diffi- cult. Meadows are crisp, sear. Lips, chapped. Hair, gritty. A high roar bends treetops in its current, yet there is no hint of rain. The rare squall drains its rain into the dry air below and the droplets evaporate before they hit the ground. Surely something ... |
