Writing Contest, First Place
"Water Rights" by Pamela Cain
I complained of the cold.
John, raising his voice, said,
"They're irrigating the hayfields."
I shivered in the night,
The wind whipping past my face,
The cold air above the silver ribbon ditches
Hitting me like ice cubes.
I buried my face in his shoulder
Wishing to be snug and warm at home.
Today, I look at the soft yellow fields
Where the rust-green stalks used to grow,
See the empty ditches
That have forgotten
The taste of water,
And yearn for the sweet grassy smell
Of those long ago nights
When we rode
Across the Park.
Pamela J. Cain
June 20, 1998