The Brown Grass

Lawns are parched here in Kentucky, the grass crunches underfoot. I get thirsty just looking at the scorched fields, as if in hydrating myself I can somehow freshen the air. "We're not the Bluegrass anymore," Dad jokes. "We're the Brown Grass."

While the Independence Day fireworks display wasn't canceled, the Lexington mayor banned everything else.  No firecrackers, sparklers or Roman candles. It's a hot, mean summer here, 99 degrees in the shade.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but the storm that's been teasing us for hours seems more likely now.  The sky has darkened, and, at their higher elevations, the oaks and maples bend with the wind. Will we soon be drenched in sheets of rain, will rivulets run down the driveway and into the streets?

Or is it like those tarmac puddles that shimmer on the summer highway and disappear as soon as you draw close to them?