Everyday in July, the mountains gather rain—stacking clouds into towering blue heaps.  When they reach high enough, they crack at the foundation with neon lightening, and topple into thunder and collapsing virga.  The purple peaks are bare of snow now. 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 for the jays that chatter in the the juniper grove.  They know where the shade is thick, and the wild branches hang tangled and heavy with berry.  Rest here while you wait for darkness to come at last.  Then, careen toward the midnight sky, to where the milky way streaks all the way across, and swallow every star. Drink in the syrup of the cricket song.  The black Night will fill you up.