“This is the month of nature's held breath and, at any moment, an abrupt exhalation. In wetter places, the transition would be described as the thaw, a melting that is fluid, headlong, and muddy. In this desert, the release is felt in rock and air, and you must pay close attention if you are to witness its precise moment. Mark and I load up the big white-water raft with camping gear and slip down the river on an early-season trip. The sun has grown warm but not quite trustworthy. Along the river...banks, the cottonwoods still rise as gray lace. The Russian olive trees expect migrating bluebirds in branches still laden with a few pale olives and limp dry leaves. Beyond the banks, Mormon tea, yucca, and sage hold winter's scant green. On south-facing slopes, there are signs of spring's avant-garde: shoots of cranesbill and a purple mustard plant that emits a faint scent of stale washcloths. The Canada geese do not fly off as we pass them. They are reluctant to leave their gravel bars, where they show brooding behavior in incessant bassoon honking and fretful struts, necks roped out straight ahead of their bodies.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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