Rain, rain, come this way . . . .

Today, Fiorella's brain is as empty as the local lakes and as dry as the parched earth. Yes, for once, she has nothing to say. Except to plead for rain. She's tired of spending her evenings toting plastic milk bottles of water outside to her thirsty plants, the ones she can't reach with the hose by pumping last night's bath water out of the tub. But looking at the ten-day forecast, the weather ahead is going to be even hotter, up to 106 degrees.

Now she understands why those ancient southwestern Indians abandoned their pueblos when the weather cycled hot one too many times.