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 dragonflies to where the water puddles. Listen to the jays chatter in the the juniper grove. A feast has been prepared in the afternoon shade. The crows are invited too. The day is long enough now that everyone shall come to dine on the wild blue branches. And when night comes at last, it offers another sort of berry. Careen toward the midnight sky, to where the milky way streaks all the way across, and swallow every star.