He looked on the clouds in western sky build-rising into wall; blue of before shadowed in change, violet gray premonition, or only ghost, of storm that would or would not be. They ran in the field. The beans were dry, combine’s run surrounded by chaff-billows of dust as it threshed all taken in from field.
He thought of his son, “Dad, are you coming to my practice?”
“I will be there if I can, if we’re not running in the fields.”
Maybe today would be the day.
He prayed the rain would fall.