You can tell when a storm is near—even unseen in sky. Temperature change, by body shivers in constant of tractor’s cab. I turn the heater on, 86 degrees outside—winter-breeze moment before’s 92.
There are shadows to the southwest, haze of not-formed cloud. From this, cloud becomes. There shadow streaks beneath, contrails of rain’s form and fall.
South end of the field, squall line shows in blue of tree line for which I drive. Seconds after, it shows on tractor hood and windshield’s cover.
Out of air, it builds just south. It is just a cloud, low of sheet. It wasn’t there, but now it is. It may last a minute. It may last for thirty—who knows?
It’s all a guess this time of year.
I think the rain will be light—then it pours, strong and beating thirty seconds, and then it’s gone; cooler sky, stay of overcast. I keep running over sodden surface, still dry beneath. I slip in my turns, weight of the planter pushing tractor wider than I mean. I downshift speed, tires grabbing better hold.
I just want to get done.
Field beyond, half-mile south, another squall line shows, blur of trees’ green tops and dark of violet understory.
Cloud still builds—but mostly south. Will it hit again, or is the rain patch done?
Who knows?
It’s all a guess this time of year.
