What will be next? I sit on my porch in my old beach chair. The sun blazes down to burn up the land. The grass is dying, the dirt’s turned to sand. No birds are heard singing; there’s no cloud in the sky. The flowers have wilted. I watch them slowly die. We must conserve water, so our lawns turn to straw. We’re allowed to water, one hour a month – but no more. The wildling is hiding, but only heaven knows where; So I sit on my porch, with a saddened blank stare. But, I think it’s too late.