Tucson, AZ
It is 4:30 am. I hear the hum of the radio and hear a groan at my side. It is still dark outside, but the mourning doves are already awake. I hear their soft call outside the gauzy curtain in the window. I open my eyes, struggle to convince myself that I am really awake. Then out of bed in seconds, as if standing will wipe the sleep from my eyes. I wander towards the kitchen to make a morning herbal tea, unlock the back door and step outside into the dawn. I stand upon warm red stone under the arbor and climbing vines. In the east there is a lightening in the sky. The doves are still calling.
Though the stone retains its warmth, this is the cool time of day. Morning's motionless freshness fills my lungs and nostrils with the essence of the desert. The smell of creosote, chaparral, larrea tridentata, it is the smell of desert rain. In all the months I have been away, this is the smell that I remembered most; heady and warming, yet pungent and refreshing. Just before returning home from school a friend brought me a pot of creosote salve. Its essence followed me into the temperate forests of New England. But now I am home.
The morning is enchanting, silent, and full of song. I remember the first time I awoke in the desert, astounded by the crepuscular choir. It still fills me with wonder to know that in the driest places on earth, life is abundant. By 5:30 am the sun has risen. The morning cool begins to dissipate; the kiss of sun upon the body of the earth shatters the stillness. Runners and bikers are returning, scurrying towards air-conditioned homes and shady patios like ants returning to the hill. I, too, retreat back inside, hiding from the sun.
At mid-morning I'll return, after eating and tidying up; the plants need watering. On the mint plant lives a white spider; she's protecting it from the aphids. The portulaca has a new magenta flower. I turn the spigot and warm, clear water flows from the hose. I question the actions I perform, watering ornamental plants and herbs, in the desert, where fires rage on the mountains because it has not rained. Why am I so fortunate to be able to turn a knob and have water on call? What makes my plants and me more important that the withering pines on the mountains? Nothing, I remind myself. One day the water won't be here either. We can only take so much before the earth will stop giving, before the ground will sink under its own weight, aquifers empty and hollow beneath our feet. I wonder if the mourning doves will still sing at dawn and if the desert will still smell of rain?