I have been suffering a dry spell. When the water doesn't come, the very air crackles with tension, static and dry. It's more than enough to make you irritable. Sparks fly at the lightest approach. The woven matter of my headcloth is weighty with dusty burden. Forty days and forty nights is far too much to ask from a mere mortal slouching along this desert terrain. When day breaks on the twenty-eighth and no oasis nigh, I sink heavily into the sand. I want nothing but to hide my devastated face from the sun and the sky and the world, but there is no relief from the pressure of heat pressing from every direction.
When the drought breaks, there is no storm, no breaking of flood gates. Only a sputtering of mud.