we need rain

from his window.
hands on hips, he sees the field.
the dry earth.
browned furrows of dust
awaiting wind.
the cows, ribbed
like ships aground,
still
against the sand.
his wife
goes into the other room.
she doesn't want
to hear
or feel what he has to say,
we need rain.
we need rain, he says,
as he says
everyday.