An endless drought. The resevoir continues to dry out. Wheat and barley fields, once so full of promise, have whilted for want of water. Like everything else.
We watch the medicine woman stirring her pot over a fire. She adds dash of some foul-smelling herb, chants a litany in a language none of us understand. We watch in silence.
She is our last hope.
If she fails, we all must abandon our village, our home for generations untold. Not all of us will survive such a journey.
She finishes her chants, stirs her bubbling pot one last time.
No one says anything for a long time. Finally, our headman musters up the courage we all lack.
“Well?”
Her cerulean eyes meet his. One breath, then another. At last, she smiles, points up.
gathering clouds
the crescending woosh
of sudden wind
these tender mercies
upon which we depend
for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Silver #writephoto
and Tanka Poets on Site’s 27th June 2020 prompt: Gerry Muse #213 (occasional tanka prose)Stirring the Pot
Frank J. Tassone 
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