June begins fire season in the West. The Sun is a sharp disk; the Sky is the pale blue of a distant wildfire; the mesas are an old photograph. At Dusk, the horizon cuts a long red line along the bottom of the Earth. Nobody expects rain until July. It is perfect weather for the agave and prickly-pear to bloom. Each one arranges a great orange and electric green alter where the hummingbirds and the moths may offer gratitude. Out East, on the cow-bit mesas, the cholla make 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. Follow the green beetles—rest in the shade of that old tree by day, and buzz in the porch light after dark.