Slow, huge thunderheads.
Rain had washed everything, as though it had doused the desert with a gigantic fire hose. The daisies’ faces were plastered to the ground.
A pretty mano of pink granite. Where it lay was wilder than when it was made by an Archaic hunter-gatherer, probably a woman: only the rare hiker goes there now. The mano had been looking at the sky for two thousand years, at least. I admired it, then left it to its next eons of quiet and space and rain.
*
WORLD-BUILDING and WILDERNESS: 
Blessings on the rain. And may it come down gently and gradually, to avoid flooding.
Last night came “male rain,” as the Navajos say: lightning crashing overhead, downpours. This morning there was an inch of water in the watering can. The acequias are running black with the ashes of the Las Conchas fire.