Last night, as I walked home, the trees were all this deep vivid spring green, and as I watched the sun was set, turning the sky a low-key orange over the mountains, and I found myself thinking that if one wanted to catch the desert at a moment in time and hold it, this wouldn’t be a bad one.
But even as I thought it, I could see the wildflowers had mostly faded, giving way to bright the cactus blooms, in shades of magenta and yellow and orange, that follow. And this morning, when I stepped out into the morning, the cool air had an edge that spoke of heat to come.
By the time I hit Eloy on my way north to this week’s book signings, I could feel that heat in the air around me, making me regret my jeans. I feel it here in Tempe now, warmth caressing my bare arms, but also leaving me with little desire to stray out of the shade.
I could blame Phoenix–we’re in the habit of doing that down in Tucson anyway–but I know the cycle of the desert seasons too well for that. It’s already May. It’s been a mild spring, as such things go.
But the dragon’s waking, testing his fire. Summer’s coming. We know the drill.