Oh, never mind, it’s just my yard. It’s dry, dry, dry. Walking across my grass sounds like stepping on pretzels. There was more precipitation from the watermelon-seed-spitting contest at the church picnic last Sunday than we’ve had in the last month. I go out to get the morning paper and the voices of the blades of grass cry out to me like a million little William Shatners: “Must…have….water…now. (Khan!)”
I’m not insensitive. I’ve tried to help. The yard is too big to save everyone, but I turned on the sprinkler over the weekend for the sections closest to the house. The ground sucked it up so fast that the vacuum almost pulled me over backwards. Two months ago all was lush and green and the grass would do the wave, taunting me as I mowed. “Na na na, hey-hey! Mulching? We don’t need no stinking mulching!”
Now the only patches of green are the weeds, which are (as always) undaunted. “No, no, it’s cool, man. We like it like this, no matter how hard or dry it gets. One day, us weeds and the cockroaches are going to rule everything!”
Lord, send the rain. Soon.