On the Edge

. . . of the Sonoran Desert. Somewhere south of Zane Grey country. For now, this is home.

This picture was taken toward the end of a winter day filled with soft rain. Storm has passed, air is fresh, sun is about to set. Summer rains are gulley washers. Most of their moisture ends up in the river fifty miles south, accompanied by trees, boulders, small buildings and the occasional vehicle. Sometimes residents north and west of the drainage basin have to wait an hour or so for the main washes to recede so  they can go home. Every year at least one impatient person drives into a flowing wash, stalls the vehicle and drifts onto a sand bar. Occupants climb onto the roof and sit waving at television crews in helicopters overhead while the rest of us (watching later on television) are reminded of Nature's power and human foolishness. I always hope the "strandee" is a person who has just moved here from back east, but usually it is someone who knows better. Years ago it might have been me, but now I turn the car around, drive back into town and visit the library or hang out at the local book store. If Weezie were with me, we could drive down to Babes R Us and be dazzled by all the pretty outfits. I've learned some things over the years about trying to shape situations to my will.