When I step outside into the overwhelming heat to move the sprinkler to another parched portion of the back yard, I often wonder how the men and women of the pioneer days ever managed to remain rooted where they were, rather than desperately heading back eastward. I imagine it was the faith that it would surely rain the next day.
As my feet crunch their way back into the air-conditioned house, I think back to the spring, when the skies did the sprinkling for me.
Ah, Nebraska Land! Sweet Nebraska Land,
Upon they burning soil I stand.
And I look away, across the plains,
And I wonder why it never rains.
– Roger Welsch