I wonder what strange beast, growing and purpling, will grope beyond the mountains, tumble down, and spill forth its contents? Or will it?

Peoples living well before us must have tasted the air and looked up at the darkening sky and hoped or prayed or sang or danced. Or all. Will it come this time?, they must have thought.

Rain in the Southwest is always an open question. Even when it seems as if the winds could pick up no more and the clouds droop and crack or crackle no more, still rain may not come. It can feel as if, especially at the height of summer, the sky above is aching to release. And it may not. Or a few drops may fall, with faint promises made, though rarely kept.

Then when it’s least expected, the rain may fall. And keep falling. And the rain barrels and the courtyards and the streets may overflow and the basements flood and the sand and the dirt scurry into arroyos and more than everything wash away.

Too little, they might have said, for too long and then too much too quickly. Were they angry? Fatalistic/ Did they know why they stayed here?

It must have been because they loved it so and anyway and verily.