It was a dry spell.
When the rain didn't come, the villagers
didn't give it much notice and instead
continued their unremarkable lives
As if, somewhere, in the depths of their cores,
past the flesh that stretched thin over their ribs,
and the beating metaphors in their chests,
So, even as they watched their crops turn brown,
they had hope.
So even as the heat reddened their faces,
they had dreams.
They were foolish to have faith in such things
they knew better than
to puncture holes
in the sky.
to bend lightening
to create sparks.