Maybe next year

Today, it will hit 37.7777C, 100F in Missouri, after weeks of 90+F with scant moisture. The land is dry, flowers are wilting, the trees are dropping their leaves as the  wind begins to  pick up, blowing  the soil and moisture of the fauna. The  sunshine scorching the blackberries. The air filled with te aroma of the berries cooking on the limb, only missing the pastry for a cobbler or tart.  While pond shrinks a foot lower, the shoreline mud cracked and brittle like the shell of an egg. Soon the fish may boil. The midday siesta is appropriate. Cattle settle below the branches of a solitary tree. Crowding. crouching together squeezing into the shade. The blades of lawn fade, green to yellow to beige to brown wilting to straw, their edges curl, rolling to center. The birds and bugs are silent, resting a la nest. The closeness of the sun beating down, warming, heating, percolating the Central Plains. July will be hotter, August too. The early crop of salad greens, peas, tomato and tomato plants grew well with watering, perfect specimens for the deer, racoon and other wildlife starving from the drought emboldened by hunger lurking closer and closer to civilization. The flowers too, disappear, the plants look as though they were crewcuts, each stem chewed to the same height. leaving some to keep the plants all growing for a nibble tomorrow. The garden planted to share with wildlife is this year their platter alone, only the onion and garlic will they not eat, leaving something for us.
 Somebody ate the beets, maybe tomorrow we'll see if we can find some potatoes. The pleasure of the summer of fresh vegeatables a maybe for next year. This year is simply the memory of the effort put forth to feed us all, and they all went to the table first.