Summer's a grassy sea of ochre yellows

and dusty browns

in this dry, hot part of our north state.

The rains are done,

and won't come again

till the sun scorched land

is cooled by Fall.

Wherever you see a stretch of green,

you know that pasture has water to it,

from some irrigating well.

For unless they're changed

by the hand of man,

every open field on this valley floor

dries up like a critter's

sun bleached bone.

But I welcome the sight

of those buff colored hills

and sage gray brush.

It means there's still some space untouched

by anything but the natural cycle

It's known for years.

And it's learned to endure,

as all life must,

trusting the rains will follow the dust.

Rae Turnbull