Redeeming Hope Springs
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The dust rises off Main Street in thin brown curls, kicked up by a dozen pairs of boots and the slow turn of wagon wheels. I swipe at my forehead with the back of my glove and feel the grit already settled into the creases of my skin. The dry spell has stretched into its seventh week now, and every breath tastes like the inside of a flour sack.
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The dust rises off Main Street in thin brown curls, kicked up by a dozen pairs of boots and the slow turn of wagon wheels. I swipe at my forehead with the back of my glove and feel the grit already settled into the creases of my skin. The dry spell has stretched into its seventh week now, and every breath tastes like the inside of a flour sack.
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