Dry Spell

We bite the dust every morning, spitting gray powder, like desperados. Firebirds nosedive in forewarning, perverting the trees into hell’s tornadoes. We taste sooted smog on our tacky tongues, dragging all our shadows of remorse. Finding no habitat for our wheezing lungs, we long for the rain’s fecund watercourse. We find Death Valley spreading like a contagion, and dodge parched patches, bruised and baked by sol. So delirious our meandering, we know not our region, our infernal night camps reek of cinder and wood coal. We chant, not knowing the meaning of an arcane lyric, unsure how to summon the recondite eidolon of Seth. As city shells smolder, all chronic hearts await some mantic. Surely hell will freeze over, so we wait with bated breath.