I shouldn’t have washed my hair last night. My hat never will stay on in this wind. I brace on the balls of my feet as a West Texas wind gust shoves me toward the pens north of the house. It grabs at the
back of my wide-brimmed hat, and I push it farther down on my head. If this dang wind doesn’t stop blowing, we won’t have to worry about needing rain. There won’t be enough dirt left to grow grass in. Half of Iran’s dirt blew through on a south wind the last three days, blasting everything with caliche, including the eleven Hereford heifers. Their red coats are tainted gray as they lie around chewing their cuds, looking more as though they are re-covering from an all-you-can-eat buffet than about to calve.

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