Member-only story
Poetry
Gratitude in Green
I leave when the drought is at its worst — the cholla shriveled
into accordion pleats, the river running dry, and wildflowers biding their time, the air filled with grit from spring winds blustering into late June.
Goodbye, apocalypse.
I board a plane to the verdant northwest, embracing the lovely deluge
of the wettest April, May, and June on record. The humid air is a balm against my parched skin. Instantly, I feel decades younger in moist air
filled with the life force of a trillion living things — gratitude in green.
Then, a low-pressure system just off the Pacific coast begins to whirl great clouds of moisture into the high desert, pouring more than nine inches of cool water into our parched soils in a matter of weeks, and overnight, the desert comes alive. We call it Monsoon — the desert calls it life.
As ancient cottonwood roots draw in sustenance, their leaves
darken to the deepest green I’ve ever seen. Piñon pines and
desert willows, even the humble prickly pear become sponges,
turning the hills green — and every form of life sighs in relief.
