Prompt was "Four Weeks and the Rains Still Haven't Come"
A veritable Dust Bowl. That's all Sid remembered his father saying before he drove off that last morning. The dark dust billowing up in great gusting clouds behind his red truck as he drove down the farm lane and out toward the highway and then drifting slowly out over the wire fences and deadened grass of the pasture. He had sat on the front steps cradling his mug of orange juice. Felt the pinch of the boards against the back of his knees, and the rapidly disappearing cool of the stone steps in the early morning sun under his bare feet, already stubbed and dirty from a round of tag with Bertie. Bertie was his shaggy mutt collie, lolling under the maple tree with his tongue hanging out. Afterwards there were a thousand explanations, bitter recriminations, tears, screams, A lot of hustle and bustle. Of changes he couldn't quite make sense of. But those few words spoken spoken in his father's deep craggy voice as he adjusted his cap and loped down the steps to slide in behind the steering wheel encapsulated his father. A quiet man of few words, but a lover of words all the same, who always had one eye to the weather and the other to the work that needed doing.