Tell Me Love, Where Do We Go?

It's the end of spring, and the grass is dying. The yard is straw pushing up fruitlessly through dusty soil. Weeds thrive and bloom. A flock of tiny birds are hopping around in the dryness, cocking their wee heads. They are happy, like me. I don't know what they're searching for when they poke their mini-beaks into the deadness, or what they would find. Maybe they're doing a raindance. Their little drums beat in a rhythm too soft for me to hear. The grass should be at its bright greenest, the rain has failed it. But it lives, the green life hiding somewhere, sleeping until at last a burst of fresh water falls on a warm and windy night. It will come, grass, don't give up. Sleep and wait, rustle in the hot breeze and feel the lively birds on your withered heads. It will come.