Another morning in the desert, I climb over the tortoise gate to the sandy path and run straight into one of the hard-shelled ancients, steady and still on the path. It does not care for my rush, sunny Sunday mornings are a day of rest for reptiles, like any other. You think you should take note, but where you come from, summers were not for resting, but for reviving, for returning to a life that had done nothing but rest all winter, had done nothing but lie in wait.
The messages from across the ocean are clear: the first trembling days of summer are here, life is returning to their limbs, their hopeful hearts. It all begins now, and they don't want to miss a minute of it.
In the 90-degree heat, in the scorching sunlight, in the towering awe of these red rocked mountains, I feel the same. Back at the house, a story waits patiently. You've lit the fire again, everything is buzzing.
You know this is how it begins.
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