August in the Big Country, Rick Schochler

August in the Big Country

There is no one to blame,
but the only lakes left are shallow,
blistered around edges.
Narrow ditches hold nothing but cans and broken bottles.
Pumps churn far into the earth's belly,
seeking absolution for trying to grow staples
as fragile as wheat, cotton.

In town, we joke about donning head-dress,
offering dance to save our lawns browned under a close sun.
Instead, we draw curtains, turn the AC down a notch.
On K-TAB, Dale shrugs, points to clouds swirling
over Houston.