There are mornings when the sky bleeds on the mountains. The fields are olive more than mint, and the earth is still saturated with darkness. The trees burn in brown and burgundy shadows, and everything is a negative print. Red sky at morn, and etcetera.
But these are farmers, not sailors, and they read the sky in the same ancient language. Red sky at morn, farmers be warned.
Broad-leaf tobacco, thick-headed cabbages, tomatoes, hay, young green onions, they all stand in clammy pools of rain. The sky may bleed on the mountains, but the rain bleeds into pocketbooks.
Rain that claws at the earth with greedy fingers, pulling the dirt apart, prying it into streams and swards, rotting flesh, spreading rot. A hard rain, a barrel full of rain, pouring and drowning an already sated earth. And the mud, ankle-deep and more, sucking on rubber boots.
The sky could be wrong this time, but it rarely is. When the sky finishes its blood-letting, the thunderheads will roll in, black-bottomed beasts with yellow veins and glowing tongues, and you know the sky has told the truth once again.