There are fat, dark rainclouds crowding the sky and laying out shadows of birds and junipers and Rhiannon on the swing, long legs pumping the air. Monsoons are coming, and in spite of the work it means, I pray for a wide river and sweet, muddy ground. Thunder rumbles and shakes the air, and tells the stories of this place — tells of the rhythm and ways of cliff-face, thorns and forest.
Part of my morning has been spent chipping old caulk from the frames of broken windows. They need to be stripped clean so that new glass can be put in before the rains fall. A village friend came in to help us with chainsawing up some deadwood and brought us some delicious local sirloin steaks. And now I’m working away at the surprisingly large pile of emails in the Anima inbox while istening to the meandering but deep wildness of Alela Diane’s album The Pirate’s Gospel, especially the strangely tilting anthem of Sister Self, my new favorite song.
The Grape leaves have grown as wide across as my face, and on long walks towards dusk, I gather them and tuck them into a soft cloth bag. The one fully mature Elder tree of the Canyon has put out a few fragrant blossoms that herald, as always, the full arrival of the Summer Solstice. Faery flowers for a Faery festival where late singing doves and whip-por-wills serenade the sheltered curves of canyon wall. These surreal and intense days of seasonal transition invite the surrender of laying on my back in the current tasting the first few drops of the season land on my lips. Increased humidity heightens the scent of Grape flowers and Cottonwood leaves.
With the rains come a second Spring, and the awakening of some of the Gila’s most beautiful flowers, I get a shiver just thinking about it. Already the Prickly Poppies have unfolded their white petals across the fields and roadsides, and the Asters are rounding out their sticky buds. If you put your ear to the ground, you can hear the roots thrumming in excitement.