dry as dust

No rain this September. The TV weatherman's voice incredulously rises like his wife forgot to put cookies in his lunch box as he laments those thin numbers in the red. The grass is brown with green freckles. There is moisture though in the reddened eyes of the lawn clipping blower man I nod to passing along the sidewalk in the morning. Each night at my front door a spider with a PhD in Engineering weaves long web strands from the door handle high into the trees and back. I break through and swat it away, but the web is there again with small gutted insects dangling when I return at the end of the day. I tear it all down, but I'm guessing the weaver just rolls its 8 eyes and starts over chuckling.
They say it's suppose to rain.