He is standing on the sidewalk
with his palms up
asking the sky
why and why
all his hard-sown crops are dry.
The clouds are alive with heavy gray
and at the black edge of failure
he goes on his way
and drops his hands down
and drops his eyes down.
Behind him, a raindrop falls,
but he is already long browned and past.
Home among the singing dry husks of beans
he prays for water, as he has each day,
to flow by chance from his neighbor's bay.