Outside the other day, I stood from our yard and watched a hawk fly over our end of the valley. He appeared to have a fun time, floating, lifting, swooping in the wind current. Occasionally crying out. The cry of the hawk is a lonely one, a screech that pierces the air, and echoes in the rocks. It is one of those sounds you hear in Westerns, in a scene of big land and possible danger. After the hawk dropped from the sky into a large cottonwood near the river, I ran to get the binoculars. I just wanted one sight of him and that magic ability to so effortlessly fly. But he was gone.

We took a trip to Santa Fe for our v-day. We visited several thrift stores and then had Indian food for lunch. There are many things you give up when living in a small, out-of-the-way place, and here one of those an Indian restaurant. So its a special occasion kind of thing. The day was D.'s idea, and a very good one at that.

In December when we had lots of snow, it gave us cautionary hope that the winter would prove to be a decent one and fight this drought. But it hasn't. Little snow. No rain. The air is dry, the ground comes up in waves of dust. The trees are dry. And now, too early, the Spring winds have begun. We can still only hope. Maybe a rainy or snowy March? Those who deny climate change are fools, fools who believe living in denial is easier than confronting the challenges ahead. This high desert has existed for eons, getting by on just enough rain & snow, not a lot, but just enough. And now centuries of growth is dying. 

Around here you see the occasional bumper sticker, or poster in the window, "El Agua es la Vida"... 

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