All Dried Up

I want to write a post. I really do. Yesterday I actually got 500 words into one before taking a break to go and do the animal chores. Mistake! Having just returned to it with the intention of completing it today, I have read it with new eyes and decided it is rubbish. So… here we have Blog Post from Valerie: Take Two!

Simon is in Canada at the moment, visiting his daughter in Montreal, and the time zone difference means that there is no possibility of my mornings being interrupted by lengthy internet or phone communications with my Darling Husband. What better opportunity for a bit of sustained writing activity? Except that I seem to have an empty hole in my head where my creativity used to be. Looking out of the window in search of inspiration I am struck by a dismal metaphor. My brain is as parched as the arid fields. Without so much as a sprinkling of inspiration to water my imagination, any seed of an idea that drifts through my conciousness shrivels into dust. Nothing takes root. Nothing grows. Oh, what a literary excuse for non-productivity.

The unusual lack of Spring rain is turning into a Big Problem hereabouts, and it turns out that Simon’s idea to create another llama field was a Very Good Idea after all, (dammit). Duc and Valentine are smugly munching away at the long grass that remains in their new field, and we have opened up their old area to the Breeders. Of course, the lack of rain means that vast swathes of their now extended field are bare and barren, but at least the stretches around the valley bottom, along the edges of what was the stream, are still a bit green. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing, and with the current field arrangement, all of the llamas have access to a stream-side area of slightly less-dry land.

But it won’t last them much longer. And I don’t want to even begin to think about the implications for the hay that we will be wanting for the winter. We need rain, and we need a lot of it. Now. Please. I have been studying the weather forecasts for possibilities of thunderstorms, and searching the skies for fat, juicy cumulonimbi, but, so far, any promised precipitation has failed to materialize.

The sun comes up…


The sun goes down…


…and those indigo clouds of hope on the horizon hold back their tears, and slip sheepishly away with a distant rumble of apology.

And another dry day bites the dust.

Dry as a bone (but not as tasty)

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