It is already fire season. 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. The agave take the chance to bloom--reaching out a tender green finger first before unfurling into an open hand of electric orange alter.  The hummingbirds offer gratitude. The moths make their own contribution, folding and unfolding their pink wings in a prayer for abundance.   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.