The Game

This grass has been cut, turning brown, straw like. Tall weeds have taken over. Tomato plants dying of thirst. Peppers picked. Where is the rain?

He started his days in the garden. A cup of coffee sat on a rock close-by. The old man used to water the plants and earth everyday. Until it became too expensive. Water is a precious commodity.

Now days he relies on mother nature. She has not been fair to the Midwest. The lonely man wondered why he even tried.

Cucumbers, radishes, bib lettuce, melons rotted on the vine. Half picked over by rabbits and coyotes looking for midnight snacks. He could hear the mad dogs howling into the night. The old air conditioner only drowned out so much noise; semis on the highway, train whistles under a yellow moon. Kids down by the river.

These summer days. The old man was ready to move on. Wrap it up to another failed garden. If only he’d read the almanac. How did they know? he thought. It’s a guessing game, the old man said. It’s all a guessing game.

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