The storms have begun, the gray blue shapes of mountains glow from the downpour. In the distance I hear the storm arriving, rumbling and rambling along the mesa as it did the day before. The flashes and the deep roar of thunder fill the valley with silver light and cold air.

It has been a dry year and the desert is refreshed with the perfume of long awaited rain. The land already sprouts green fuzz that softens all the tans and rust on the hillsides. The hills like ancient pottery just fired, display cliffs of rouge pink and scarlet that receive the rain like a ritual offering. The rain channels water into the worn crevices and ledges that direct the water down into the valley. Birds settle themselves in the cottonwoods for the big gush from the sky as the lightening strikes and moves quickly over the land. When the rain stops, the sky is shining pewter light as chattering birds dart in and out of the trees blessing the leaves with sound.

There are places in this river valley that have been restored and untouched by the constant-grazing cattle. This land is rich with waves of green cottonwoods along its banks. The sycamores breathe a dramatic candle white between the thick green rattling cottonwood leaves but they are sparse because of flooding and the impulsive instincts of the river gone wild from misuse of the land.

There are many scenes along this river. Some of the banks might be carefully pole planted to restore the shaken landscape. Other areas have piles of rusted cars or cattle ripping the last shreds of green from its soil. One house across the road is filled with black and white bits of metal from old washers, dryers, and car doors and camouflages a pinto burro wandering through the rubble searching for something to eat. Another yard has planted native plants and placed the frame of an old brass bed to grow a bed of roses in the center and a headboard of morning glories.

It is a valley that holds both the possibilities of renewal and destruction in the constant dialogue between neighbors about how to keep the score high in favor of life and preservation. The lives of the people in the valley are like the land, some filled with debris, waste, and addiction and others taking in everything they can around them and bringing as much of themselves to it, making order, grace and heart.

The Gila River fills ditches for irrigation, makes canyons for the birds and wildlife, and is a haven for trees and marsh grasses. The river transforms everything; roots smoothed, rocks polished, leaves tied into intricate piles and patterns. The river water drifts into green pools to metamorphose into a kingdom for water striders and frogs. The river makes use of everything, while we seem to lay to waste so much in our lives through the needless tangle of emotion left untilled, buried in a dark mass of unfulfilled wishes and dreams. The desperate heart acts like the uncared for river with sudden bursts of reaction and hatred. It is a land and place of extremes, with the potential of new life arriving after each storm that sweeps everything clean and soothing.