Drought
Virga. It was the dirtiest word Buck knew, even after a career in the Army. He stood on the back porch and watched the blue-gray clouds pass in review, saluting him with virga.
If it didn’t rain soon, he’d have to sell off the rest of the herd, and he didn’t know how to tell his old man. The hay grazer was dying in the fields. His prayer now was just for decent pasture, so they could save what bales were left for the coming winter.
Dear God, please let it rain.
Buck’s father joined him on the porch. “Time to sell ’em Son.” Buck stared at his father. “Come on Buck. Do you think this is the first time that it never rained?”
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