Missouri bakes—slowly, steadily. Flowers desperately hoard moisture and curl petals and blooms while charitable owners ceremoniously serve life-sustaining water morning and evening. Birds flock to makeshift baths searching for relief bestowed by caring hands, and still Missouri bakes—slowly, steadily. Locals pry the forecast for hints of relief. Cloudy. Chance of rain. Isolated showers. Maybe. Maybe. The sky fills with billowy temptresses which darken and taunt and promise rain, but they pass with the rising wind and momentarily shroud Missouri and Missourians until a breath or activity becomes burdensome, and locals sigh from the weight of the broken promise. "Conserve water" tips appear and parents turn on sprinklers for parched grasses and children too small to realize that discomfort is in the air, and Missouri urchins flock to the City Pool and splash as zealously as their winged counterparts, rejoicing in the joy of water. Locals gather in small clusters in stores and cafes and chat urgently, lustily, about the "heat wave" as they glance from their air-conditioned solace to the sweltering heat beyond the glass view. Lawns and gardens become impassioned topics. Tales of stunted crops and wilted vines entice would-be bountiful gardeners to chat, almost contentedly, while drawing from the well of compassion and talk of today—tomorrow—and maybe rain. Rain. It will come. Eventually. Until then, Missouri and its inhabitants wait. Hopefully. Longingly. Like they always do.

W. Lee Kincy's work has appeared in the Southeast Missourian, The Vindicator and other publications.

Copyright © 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

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