Dustbowl Crops

Another dry day. Two wheat straws gently quiver in the slight breeze, then are still. These two are the only ones after yesterday’s sand storm took what little was left of the crop. Ma’s packing up the kitchen and Pa’s in town trying to sell the last two goats. We’re the last two families out here, everyone else has moved even further west. The Gardner’s will pick up with us I reckon—no sense in being dead last when you can go out together.