The Sun scales the shore of a wet and red cloudbank. Morning is already here, thick and warm. It has been too long, but it will rain today. Lightning and thunder first—and then a cold splat!—and then another—and another—until the desert yields, and the whole world is overcome in a tide of water.
Everyday in July, the mountains gather rain—stacking clouds into toppling blue heaps. The peaks are bare of snow. And the rivers run out of the canyons, green and fast enough to wash it all away. The forests only keep what they will need.
Follow the chattering jays to the juniper grove. A feast has been prepared in the afternoon shade. The crows are invited too. Everyone shall come to dine on the wild blue branches. Except for me. I have come for something else. I have come for the stars—I will careen my head toward the midnight sky, mouth agape, and try to swallow every one.