When the world is hot

by Slim Randles

When the world is hot and my skin is fried, scratching from the constant dry, let the clouds boil up – boil up high. And then shade the earth with the darkening sky and bring the secrets and the smell of rain. The heat and the blessed rain, again.

Our land is brown but blessed, stressed in the heat, the shiny heat of day. The slender green of desert rivers slides along, striving to continue, to feed its own along the banks – the banks where the dust rises. Rises, powdery clomp by clomp as we walk – walk the shady way.

Ours is the blessing of challenge, to live, to thrive in the heat. But bring us the clouds, the black bellied clouds, the clouds that softly hold the heads of gods in their moistening grasp. Let them come, with their silver tops and their bellies black as night and cool as forgiveness.

The summer clouds, the clouds that define our culture, our art, our summer, our hot, heavy summer. Let the magic come and stay, stay for a while, at least for a while, and wet us down, all the way down. Fill our pores, smooth our skin, wash us free of dirt and sin, with the rain, the cleansing blessed rain.

A rain, a storm, a suddenness of life and blast and sweet charity designed to keep us living here, here in the rain, here in the sun, and keep us praying, here in the rain, and looking toward the west for more, always to the west, always looking for more.