The sound of distant thunder, air so thick she can’t breath. She knows she should run for the buckets; let them fill with the promised bounty. The first drop. Turning her face up, there’s more, sparse, large, like bullets on her parched skin. Quicker now and closer together. Running dusty rivulets down her neck. Round and round she spins, her arms out, like they do in the movies, her toughened feet oblivious to the harsh earth. Splatters of red mud cling to her ankles. Louder and louder on the tin roof. She stands still now head down, relishing the water rinsing her hair, across her face, her neck, down her back. She smells the dry earth giving up its dust into the steam, pale ochre as it rises from the thirsty ground. She watches tiny rivers travel into cracks and disappear. She knows she should get the buckets. She tilts her head back once more, mouth open drinking it in like liquor

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