Black Sunday, 1935

Year five of the Great Depression. April 14, 1935 another Sunday of church services praying for The rain that wasn’t coming. And the sky turned mean and angry, as daylight was obliterated into The blackness of night. The wind scoured the land, sweeping Everything in front of it like a plague of ancient locusts. A great migration of dust lifted up, blowing away a swath Of the American dream, leaving only memories before 1935. A relentless burning wind emptied out what little hope the Migrating towns had left. Every inch of top soil was devoured, while dead cattle were strung out Against the barbed wire fence line; marked boundaries didn’t count for much anymore. A blizzard of death coated whatever was in its way, across the Empty fields of the Great Plains, the haciendas of New Mexico, the Empty towns of Oklahoma and everywhere it touched. Black Sunday’s revenge was absolute, falling black snow, six feet deep. Dust coating the lungs, blinding the eyes, swallowing the homesteads. An inky black wall spawned from hell spread its wings, soaring Hundreds of feet high. When it ended, nothing would be the Same in these places. The barren Dakotas. The endless plains of Kansas. The mountain peaks of Colorado. The great dust bowl of Oklahoma. The arid lands of New Mexico. The vast Texas cattle ranches. America, Sunday April 14, 1935 Hard times.