The town elders remember the old days, when the river to the south flooded three long years.
At times they cursed the water, undrinkable unless strained but they stopped when they realized it might not last forever
Six months' drought killed the weaker members and most of the children
but now, on the horizon the elders see stormclouds
Bio: Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Wildflower Muse, Noble/Gas Qtrly, and The Ibis Head Review, among others.