When the storms come, life falls from the sky. Drops merge and rivulets race. Puddles deepen, spill over. A stream resurrected, begins its disoriented crawl to the sea.
The storms come less frequently now. Our fields lie baked and burned, crumbling like old chalk.
“Got any work?”
The old men sit on their milk crates and shake their heads.
“I’m a good worker,” I say, staring at the bleached bone dock underfoot.
Sealed in silence, a collective hope ripples, suffocates in the heat.
I close my eyes. Feeling the rhythm of the weak waves, I am waiting to drift away.