It’s been an especially long, hot and dry summer in the southwest. Not since March has there been a substantial rain storm–I mean the kind that really soaks the ground and rattles the skies. Everything is crispy and has taken on that pale yellow, reserved only for the driest times. The grass is often like powder. The wild birds have taken to eating all of this year’s peaches, likely for water more than taste. I washed the kitchen rug a couple days ago and saw a honey bee trying to suck some remaining water from the fibers of the rug. Just this morning, I saw a huge raven taking a bath in a gutter, a gift from some watered lawn up the street. His black, blue tinged feathers were drying quickly in the furnace-like heat coming off the sidewalk nearby.
For the past few weeks, the air has been more often smoky than not. It’s a diffused, sinister kind of smoke that’s atmospheric, foreign. The temperatures are still in the middle to upper 80’s going into late September. They say 27 wildfires are currently burning in California. The smoke reaches us here, as if we don’t have enough of our own. And the wind comes too, each afternoon, steering dust devils into the hazy blue. They lean across the landscape, like drunks, carrying last year’s dead leaves, tipping over wheelbarrows. And then there’s the dust, the neverending dust–on the cars, in the eyes, filling the porch steps as soon as you sweep it off. Somehow, through all this, the farmers are still finding some for the fields.
I’ve never been one to beg for rain. It’s a desert here for crying out loud. Drought is not only common, it’s what makes the place what it is. But, though I’m not a farmer, I do know where my food comes from. And I know when we’re long overdue for rain. This time, when it does finally come, I’ll be very glad to see it again.
The Desert Toad 