June begins with the foothills ablaze. The grasses of a wet Spring had grown tall, and with no rain in the forecast, they were easy tinder. It is fire season in the West. The Sun is a sharp disk; the Sky is the pale blue of a distant wildfire; the hills are an old photograph. Meanwhile, every agave in town has decided that this would be the year to risk it all. Each one has arranged a great orange and electric green alter upon the open Sky. The hummingbirds and the moths offer gratitude. Out East, on the cow-bit mesas, the cholla have made their own contribution--a wild celebration of pink all the way to the horizon.
The Sun is bright and glad--it has reached the Summer meridian, pushing the shadow all the way North, into a deep purple pool. Retreat here--the Sun is also sour and foolish.