Last Tuesday the flies descended upon us, nipping at the sweat that seeped from our arms and necks.
It was a bad omen, the flies. It told us that the rains were coming sooner than usual.
The corn hadn't even made yet, and now the fertile dust that floated from tassel to tassel, mating plant to plant, would dampen and do no good for the crop.
For so long we've been waiting to suck the fresh, sweet flesh of new kernels. Now, we'd be forced to subsist on the meal from last year's corn whose taste has already grown stale