The drought is already changing the way we look at the land, the way we do business and live our lives. All over Texas, the country’s largest beef-producing state, ranchers are selling off herds early, losing millions of dollars, or hanging on just to watch the animals die for lack of water. Thirsty cows can even die from too much water; dehydrated and moved to water, the cows gulp it down too greedily, bloat up — and keel over dead.

On the Storm Ranch, 6,000 acres of rolling Hill Country, the saplings are dying for lack of roots long enough to reach for deep water through the caliche and limestone soil, like the older Spanish oaks and southern maples. “I haven’t seen it this bad in a long time,” said the ranch’s owner, Josh Storm.

On the Edwards Plateau, northwest of here, the quail, beloved by hunters, are down by over half the average already and there will most likely be fewer next year. Up in the Panhandle, farmers are plowing under dying wheat. In arid West Texas, the fear of a second Dustbowl is whispered in small towns.

Of course, Texas is an urban state, and the cities are better off. But even in Austin and Dallas, Midland and Denton, coyotes are turning up on suburban lawns in search of food and water. Looking a bit like a half-drained bathtub, Austin’s Lake Travis is closing many of its ever popular boat ramps. Local television crews regularly cook food on car dashboards to show how hot it is: in Austin they baked a batch of cookies. Not to be outdone, a crew up in Oklahoma grilled a steak.

We look at each other, in line for coffee or sitting at stop lights, and ask, silently, how long will it be this time?