Heatwave


We are baked.

And I don’t mean that in the recreational drug sense of the word.

The farm is positively parched. There’s been no rain for days and there’s little expected in the forecast.

In the spring it was a different story. The pastures and hillsides were bathed in a bright green as far as the eye could see. A combination of blizzard melt and warm spring days meant an early bloom, lush fields, and early first cutting of hay.

But then May became dry and June even drier. And now it’s hot and arid. Even the typical blanket of humidity is on vacation, so there’s no morning mist or dew. Just parched fields against a hazy white sky.

There’s nothing we can do about it but gaze out over our pitiful yard. The lawn, stunted and yellowed, crunches underfoot and scratches the bottoms of our bare feet. The raspberries and black raspberries that we picked each night have shriveled into knot-hard lumps; even the birds don’t bother with them.

The horse fields aren’t much better. Tall bristley weeds have taken over, interspersed with bare dirty patches pawed up by the horses. Bottom line, the place looks neglected.

But with temperatures near 100, there little incentive to investigate the sun’s ravages. It’s safer to beat away the flies inside and pay homage to our beloved window unit downstairs.