Dry Year

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By Jeff Wood

Dad and I are drinking beer, watching the storm clouds tumble like clowns over the Sangre de Cristos. Between us and the mountain shimmers a thin quilt of rain, falling halfway down the sky and disappearing in wisps as fragile as ghosts.

“It’s called virga,” dad says, “when the rain does that, evaporating on the way down, never reaching the field.”

”Dry year,” I say.

”Dry as bone,” he adds, clearing his throat.

The last few swallows of beer are warm, the glass bottle already dry to the touch. The hot wind blows in our faces. The distant thunder rolls.

         
“I write to remember, and understand.” – the author

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