Looking out my Backdoor: Not original, not profound

I am a blade of grass. When I don’t have water I turn brown, crisp, wither into the ground. I lie dormant until such time as rains come. I am the same as a blade of grass — except that I can reach for water. My cousin, that blade of withered grass, can send its roots only so far into the ground until it hits bedrock or can grow no further. On second thought, I am a blade of grass.

It rained. You would have thought Christmas, Easter, the Fourth of July, and my birthday all came the same day.

Our last rain was in September. It never rains in May, our hottest, driest month. We await a f...