Opinion | Fine – NRC

I drive around the meadow on the tractor. The swath rake hurls the bone-dry grass into huge clouds of dust in straight rows. The sweltering heat ripples in the both sharp and feathery summer air. I have never seen the tires of the tractor so covered in drifting sand. Precipitation no longer seems to exist. And I am very concerned. In my earplugs I hear the weatherman on Radio1 predict another week of drought and sun.

“Thank you, Marco,” says the presenter in her pleasant voice, “that sounds great again.”

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