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Phantom winds sweep through baked, drought ravaged lands. The relentless furnace of the sun wounds! Shade is no refuge. No breeze flows . No evaporation cools.

Dawn is the only sane time. It’s false coolness seems real enough. Walking is possible though not pleasant. The dog, wilting as it’s dragged along the path, business being complete, is eager to get home .

100 consecutive days over 100 degrees, no rain in sight. Texas I surrender. It has been a disaster coming here. Failed fantasies and dreams. Sometimes it’s better not to get what you want.

These words I write, like drought shrivelled leaves, crumble with time.

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By David Lane

I was born a long time ago.