Verge of Burning

It had been so dry. So arid.

It had been so long.

It was the kind of heat that could choke you. Suck out all the moisture in the body immediately. All around the air shimmered, obscuring the fields and rolling hills in the distance - creating an opaque barrier in all directions. A wall that played with one's eyes. In this heat, there were no oases, it was too hot. The only thing present was the smell of slow death.

The grass had tried not to lose its way - growing up towards the sun that was constantly beating down on it, unaware that the more it tried to reach what it needed the most, the quicker it was dying. There was almost nothing left to it. Dry, brittle. It'd snap off and disintegrate at a mere touch. Crumbling into a fine dust, to be carried off, scattered, and forgotten about by the wind. At one time the field was a lush green, bright enough to seem like it was pulsing with life when a strong breeze blew over it. Now, it looked as if a piece of Mother Nature had been mummified. Dried out and left to die somewhere in the midwest - waiting for a spark to cremate her remains.

Thankfully, a new gust of wind was blowing through the fields. Cold and brisk - pushing the heat out. Off in the distance dark clouds rolled forward, churning on one another - bulbous and growing. Their stomach's were droopy, hanging low, dragging behind, waiting for the right moment to split open and spill millions of gallons of life down onto the waiting, parched land.

Below, the grass seemed to stand at attention, like it knew what was coming, eager for the first clap of thunder and flash of lightning. After that, the first drops would fall and it could come to life again.

It was just a matter of when.