He looked out the back window at acre upon acre of dead grass. Colored brown. No weeds nor flowers. Just dried up land.

Steinbeck came to mind ; The Grapes Of Wrath. Tom Joad heading ‘cross Oklahoma. Going home, but, there is no home. Mile after mile of dirt that runs through your hands. Wind blown ‘cross highways and back roads. A blazing hot sun forever.

The old man walked out to the back porch. A skinny dog howled. His bones stuck through his skin. No water coming from the hose. That got turned off months ago. An old stick was chewed on. Splinters in his mouth. The old man tried to pet him. The dog just laid there crying. Soon this’ll be over, he whispered. The Lord will come back. Take us with him, he said, stroking the ribs on the pup.

The Midwest is no longer the Midwest. Seems like the country’s shifted. Right to left. Left to right. Sins will have to be paid for, he stuttered. We all have to atone. Make things right, he thought. One day a hard rain is gonna fall.