When The rains Come

When the rains come,
the wind will no longer throw spirals of dust at unsuspecting passers-by-
-their Sunday hats thrown askew against rotted fence posts and date-laden trees.
The horses will no longer stand in idleness under cypress trees waiting for the clouds to come.
Shaking their manes, they will no longer try to escape the sound of locusts singing amongst silver-grey leaves.
When the rains come,
people will once again tend to their gardens.
And the flowers will bloom along now dusty highways that stretch forever into seemingly deserted towns.
When the rains come,
you will smile and whisper, "un dag";
your eyes catching the last of rays of the sun.