Up a Dry Creek Without a Divining Rod


I went up to visit my poor, little cabin Thursday.  There's still no water in the spring box and the well man's on vacation. 


The flowers in the window boxes hung their heads, withering in the heat.  One lone melon vine clung to the Big Ugly bare spot where the sycamore tree used to be.  It had flowered but has apparently given up trying to set fruit, daunted by the harsh, dry soil.


Things are bad enough I've started writing stories about bodies stuffed down dry wells and folks haunted by the ghosts of Yankee soldiers.

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