Monsoons

I love the monsoons. I love the way the slate clouds meander across the sky, delivering relief from the glaring Arizona sun. I love to watch the lightning spread its white, veiny fingers down a lapis backdrop. I love inhaling the fragrance of the desert drenched with rain, and seeing my garden flourish unaided.

As the summer's rainy season concludes, my thoughts turn to autumn. Children bound for school, daylight hours waning, and me, watering the yard for hours on end. For three fleeting months, I had been pardoned from standing in the backyard struggling with a fifty-foot hose kinking and snaking around my legs. In fact, I watched an entire sitcom on more than one occasion. Alas, all good things must end.

Detangling the vivid green rubber viper beneath the water valve, I question my reasoning for not listing "install drip-irrigation system" at the top of my husband's honey-do's. I seem to recall stating something about enjoying myself, being one with nature or some maniacal remark. What was I thinking? It must have been heat stroke. There is no other logical explanation

Finally freeing enough of the hose for the water to run through, I turn on the spout and wait for the liquid to cool. Scanning the horizon, I spot a Cooper's hawk atop a nearby telephone pole. Apparently, he too has spotted something. He swoops down from his perch to soar in a wide circle, a kite with no string. He drifts momentarily then plummets toward the desert floor, his goal a delectable dinner of ground squirrel or gecko.

The water now sufficiently cool I aim the stream toward my Valencia orange tree. Merely a sapling in the spring, the monsoons have coaxed growth. Now taller than me, its leaves are a lustrous emerald. I imagine the succulent, sweet, sticky fruit it will soon offer. At least I will have some reward for my labor.

Turning toward my lemon, grapefruit and navel orange trees, I notice my next-door neighbor Lupe gathering laundry from her clothesline. We chat over the wall, catching up on neighborhood hearsay. I invite her over for iced tea, but she says it will have to be tomorrow as her grandkids are visiting. Focusing again on my trees I realize that they have all matured over the summer. I consider sending a fruit basket to the folks back East for Christmas. It is only fair, I suppose, since I will be sitting on the patio in shirtsleeves while they are shoveling driveways!

Heading to the western wall to soak the creosotes, I catch sight of the sunset. Let the Northerners have their snowflakes. In my twenty-five years here, I have yet to see two identical sunsets. This evening I view a burst of saffron erupting behind the mountains' silhouettes. Vermilion and violet cottage cheese clouds smear across the sky. Only the hand of the Almighty could paint such a portrait.

As I deposit the hose into a twisted heap, I feel a drip on my face. As thunder surges above me, the drops start to fall quick, fat, and loud on the caliche. I trot into the house and think about the nearing autumn, glad the monsoons are almost over. The humidity is so high that swamp coolers barely function. Either the power, or the cable, or the road by the wash is always going out. I will be glad to water my yard in the evenings again. There is nothing good on TV.