but nothing compares with the dusk skies of red rock Arizona.
See how a prickly pear glows, somehow, from within?
Their spines reflect the natural light, then the flowers say goodnight.
I always feel that given the strictures of growing here, the drought, mainly, and the intensity of the sun’s rays, plants have to really want to survive if they are going to make it.
Does the cloud want to float?
The century plant—which contrary to the old wive’s tale actually blooms after 10 to 30 years, at the end of its life —busts out its brawny blooms. By the way, is there anything wrong with the tales of old wives? Speaking as one, I think we are usually correct.
Clouds are dancing, slowly, sleepily. Almost nightfall.
Sotol happens to be so tall.
Once upon a time, the base of a cooked sotol stem was eaten much like an artichoke leaf (by scraping across the front teeth). What is left, called a quid, resembles a spoon and can be used as one. Archaeological sites feature samples of “Desert Spoon” thousands of years old. Sotol flower-stalks used as atlatl dart hind-shafts have been discovered in ceremonial caves, while the sotol stem was used as a fireplow. Just now, a fantastic dusk sentinel.
Ought we to call these evening clouds sopink?
The light is beginning to dim.
What happens in and about these red rock castles in the dark? The mule deer take a break from chomping grass (ruminants have four-chambered stomachs, so it takes a while to fill them all, and it’s probably pleasant to lie down during a digestive spell).
The slitherers either slither or dither under the night sky, not sure which. Triumph of lizard brain
Red rock simply sits, stoic, stolid, awaiting—nothing. Simply being. A neat trick if you can manage to turn off your human brain and try.