Gray tumbleweeds roll thick across the sky
scattering wet dust on cerulean plains
which the sun burns off as she slowly passes by,
There may be clouds, but it rarely ever rains.
Old fences weave their variegated scars
across the dry fields, remnants of better days
when cattle chewed the grass and there were no cars;
when cowboys roped and branded any strays.
It's empty now and dry, land once so fertile;
the riverbeds now barren between the hills.
What water rushed between the banks and hurtled
over rocks, and sang so sweetly in the rills
is gone. Who dares claim climate hasn't changed
has to be blind -- or just, perhaps, deranged.
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