In the dry, blistering days of summer, a farmer’s only hope is prayer. One of the best photos I’ve ever snapped with words.

His time like money wisely spent,
A farmer’s tendered one lament —
To wring his brow in the trembling air,
While his yoke unflummoxed blankly stare;
Then like his blade chevron-shaped,
Touch his hands to singly pray,
For a faraway black overcast,
To thresh him free from the chaff.