You swear if you lived in this place you would write more poetry. Or, if not, at least you might write more vividly.
The sky has so much to say here. When you look out the window at home, longing for a story, you too often encounter a solid matte ceiling. The drought has taken its toll on earth and sky, on your words and the palette you have to paint with.
Maybe you wouldn’t write more. Maybe you would spend your days on your back, on a beach or in a chaise or a golf course’s lush lawn, looking for messages from the heavens, looking for news from your dad.