Nearly every father on the high plains
felt like he’d drawn the short straw
’cause the fate of family and friends
was up to him, staring at an empty field.
The wind blew, picked up the dirt,
acres and acres of sand and straw.
It filled houses, cars, stores and everyone’s lungs
until clean air became the rarest commodity.
When that black storm Sunday came,
wiping out the first fine day in years,
it was a generation’s last straw.
The world had come to an end for many.
If there was air to breathe to stay alive
if there were jobs to earn bread and keep,
If there was straw to weave, and baskets to fill
somewhere else, then it became the time to leave.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 4.25.14 * All Rights Reserved