we hadn't had rain in weeks. The fields to the left—baked bare. The pastures to the right—exhausted, dusty, and parched. But the fog stayed here. Right over our windrows. Right over the exact ground where we've been building soil for fifteen years.

It rained yesterday. The short, gloomy day of celebrating my birth. It's funny for me to be born in the short days of fall when I crave the long, warm days of summer. I watched as the browned fall leaves of my Momma's large sycamore became heavy with water, fell to the ground, and formed puddles along the edges of her driveway. A rainy autumn leaf rests delicately on vibrant green clover, capturing the serene transition from fall to winter. I can barely remember my age when