THE RAIN
The sky is empty,
can’t call it blue.
The horizon is serrated,
and every morning
the sun comes up
like it has something to prove.
The fields remember
water filling the cracks.
Rust colours fences and grass.
A tractor coughing itself awake
before birds decide
whether it’s worth singing.
Father says the ground’s not dead.
He measures hope.
No evidence.
Never raises his voice.
He thinks the universe is watching.
Maybe it is.
And still there’s morning,
the gate swings open.
Boot prints in the dirt,
Hands bleed from the iron
as he turns dust to work.
Then drops hit the hot dry ground,
and roll down from his cap
arriving silently, unheard.
Without the petrichor
you could almost miss it.
Francisco Bravo Cabrera – 10 AUG 2026 – Turkey
LatinosUSA 
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