Jerry

He reached the top of the mound, his dry boots kicking up dust. He coughed. A withered hand stretched up to wipe the sweat dripping down his forehead and stayed to shield his eyes from the scorching sun. He was tired. He looked across the pathetic fields and wondered if it would always be this way. Hot, dry, with no rain to speak of and a crop that barely fed himself. Jerry looked around and half smiled at the fleeting memories of what use to be. "Just a short dry spell" the optimists had said. He kicked at the dirt and chuckled, "some dry spell" he muttered watching the wind whip up the dust and fling it across the sky. He had stopped hoping for rain years ago.