We crossed three washes with a foot of water flowing
through. Markers indicated that five feet was not unusual. Flash floods were
frequent.
Mesquite had been brought in for a campfire. Food was being
prepared. The rain stopped. The land dried quickly. A group of us sat on a
hillside and watched the sun sink into the plains -- a sun, round and orange in
a lavender sky.
At dusk, I knelt in the brown clay, dried and cracked, and
rubbed it between my hands -- a healing balm. Desert music of mourning doves
and crickets began. Two ravens flew above the canyon. I looked up and suddenly
remembered O'Keefe. This was her country. Her watercolor Canyon with Crows came
back to me. It was an animated canvas. I wondered if Georgia had knelt where I
was, rubbing the same clay over her hands and arms as I was, some seventy years
ago?
It was time for the fireside.
No comments:
Post a Comment