It is summer in December
Grass is brown, the sky is blue.
It is summer in December
And we don’t know what to do.
On the East Coast it’s all buried
In a blanket cold and white.
Here our skis are hitting gravel;
Were that all, we’d be all right.
But snow banks won’t be granting loans
Once real summer rolls around
And the farmers take a crack at
Growing crops in bone dry ground.
Reservoirs are sprouting ghost towns
While the hills nearby are bare.
If levels stay below the norm
Well, we’ll have to learn to share.
Fish are fighting versus farmers,
Or at least that’s what they say.
What’s the water gonna go to?
Flushing toilets? Growing hay?
All the Californians dreaming
Of horizons growing dark;
Trying to ignore this prospect:
Dry hills lit with just one spark.
True, we all did choose to live here;
Raise our cattle, dig our pools.
But I’m sure we’ll think of something,
We poor desert-dwelling fools.
It is summer in December
Grass is brown, the sky is blue
It is summer in December
And we don’t know what to do
Written by G.B. shortly after the end of 2013, the driest year in California’s history.