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There’s a fingernail moon hangin’ low in the sky. The crickets make small talk as he passes by.
As the gentlest breeze stirs what’s left of his hair. He spits and he sniffs it, but no moisture there.
He stares at the field and remembers the year These same 80 acres paid the loan free and clear.
But these last 30 days have scared him to death. The dirt’s as dry as a horny toad’s breath.
He called up his banker after supper tonight. They talked for an hour and he’s sure getting’ tight.
Ol’ Thelma had kissed him and went on to bed. So he took a walk, thought it might clear his head.
The doctor has told him he’s got to slow down. Sell out the home place and move into town.
‘Move into town! What the heck would he do?’ He shook off the thought and took a fresh chew.
A bachelor cloud, thin as fog on a mirror, Crossed over the moon and then disappeared.
He sniffs at the air that’s still dry as a bone. And takes one more look at the seeds that he’s sown.
He’ll be back tomorrow if somethin’ don’t changeJust hangin’ on, hopin’, and prayin’ for rain.