by Ky J. Dio
A hundred days without rain leaves The mountain grass and cactus glassed roots
dry in their beds.
A hundred days without rain means the mountain cats are making their way down
the thickets of branches that sleep in the tree lines.
A hundred days without rain makes the suns halo hazy, halfheartedly draped over
shoulder blades. It makes the thick jelly slicked heat wave that kisses the
blacktop heavy with motor oil and grease, gritty pieces of dusty history and
summer thorns.
A hundred days without rain makes the gray thirsty mountain sigh and beg for
water like me.
Ky J. Dio is a host and Administrator for Juniper House Readings, a Slam Poet, a facilitator of creative writing workshops, and the author of 5 chapbooks. She makes recycled acrylic and spray paint art, and works as a Jewelry Specialist at a pawn shop. She lives in Flagstaff, Arizona.
