The grass is bleached of life. The shoulders of the oaks are hunched, minimizing exposure to sun and wind, minimizing loss of moisture. The creek that two years ago received ice melting off branches, drops ringing like chimes and bells in a natural symphony, is today stone and dust. Not even a puddle behind the dam.

The green fern at the cleft of the limestone leafless. All that remains are pale brittle stems.

It has not rained here for a long long time.

Life fumbles along, a beetle here, squirrels, deer, jackrabbits. Red-tailed hawk and American kestrel. Still here. Less exuberant. More contained and focused inward for survival. Still here.

Drought a part of the cycle. To be lived if not with joy, with grace.