A farmer stands in a field of green.
No mud stains on his polished boots.
His overalls are clean and pressed.
No sweat runs down his neck.
He once grew substantial stalks of corn,
enough to feed a mob of chickens laying ivory eggs,
enough to manufacture Ethanol keeping the air pristine,
enough to cultivate maize feeding your family and his own.
Now this field is wilted dandelions and three leaf clovers.
Nourishing rains that cascaded every summer dried up when the drought took hold,
threatening to turn his fertile land into the Mojave Desert.
The farmer finds it hard to breath, the healthy air replaced by a silver haze,
the exhaust of diesel trucks delivering Chinese-made toys to Wal-Mart.
The cherry farmhouse he once called home is now inhabited by termites.
His chickens sold at market for a loss, processed into McNuggets.
Miles above, two taunting white clouds won’t provide the relief of rain.
They laugh at the farmer as he plants his sign, “ACREAGE FOR SALE.”