The feeling of waiting for the rain.

Confusion looms on the horizon. Mirages and dirt devils. The dry, tacky sensation of dirt on the tounge in mid afternoons desert heat; the insatiable dusty inferno of a mouth you can’t seem to hydrate fully. It’s inscruciable.

I started growing food in my yard and I started to watch the sky. Corn taught me to cherish the monsoon, heavy clouds laden with life hugging the mountain tops to the west. The great expanse of the Gila drifting for hundreds of miles until dropping abruptly to the floor of the Sonoran desert. Those clouds, ever stuck to that spine of the continental divide called the Black Range.

The summer drifts on and a few rains come. The corn grows slightly taller; the sun seems amused by the struggle.

It’s easy for me in this modern life to wax poetic about the rain, think that it matters and when it doesn’t show up I turn on the hose.

Dryland farmers though suffered and died by the rain. Starving children would make you really really curse the sky.

The paintings float in from no where leaving quietly in kind. Some of them torment me and some simply fall from the tip of the brush effortlessly – evening rain on the banana leaf. I am unable to really say where they come from, at least not exactly. Nor do they have a particular purpose. Though when looking at them you will see something and that is what I offer: the space around the edges where familiarity resides kneaded with the mysterious unknown.

I dream of a future where the animals take the best parts of technology from us and evolve far enough along to clean up the derelict strip malls and plastic water bottle islands. A time when we are encouraged to talk with the nesting robins stealing earth worms from the garden beds while marking time with the motion of the moon.

You see one day very soon (oh so soon) we are all going to be interacting with robots daily though often not able to discern if they are robots or if they are human. Frightening. The streamlined efficiency this mechanized intelligence will bring to commerce will be counter weighted heavily against the metaphysical crisis imposed upon our human psyche. Senses distrusted fail our rational; Hume laughs. Newfound neurosis occupying newfound leisure.

Yet this omniscient interconnected pan-cognizant future will also allow us to realize everyone bleeds and loves and laughs the exact same way and though dogma might cause us to dye our cloth differently that is no reason to kill each other. And so I dream of this world, when elephants tweet about good water holes and mud baths and us humans share space with the bees.