no horse to ride out on

it's a dry spell
here, the land
is coarse and brown,
my boots throw up dust,
and the slight wind
is soft. like a warm
whisper holding the sun's
breath. there is nothing
green as far as the eye
can see, no blue either,
but a white quilted sky
of long tired clouds.
the memory of water
sits like sand pebbles on
my parched tongue. nothing
is coming up the road,
or on the rails. this is
the way things end, slowly,
without rain, without
hope, with no horse
to ride out on.