An endless drought. The reservoir 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.
Her cerulean eyes meet his. One breath, then another. At last, she smiles, points up.
the crescending woosh
of sudden wind
these tender mercies
upon which we dependhttps://drifting-sands-haibun.org/08/2020/arid-hope/
Thank you, Richard Grahn, for your acceptance of my work! Congratulations, haijin!