Sheriffs and Sonnets
Our first dip into history involves several northern Arizona Sheriffs, before we come back to water flowing through Sabino Canyon outside Tucson.
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Sheriff Joe Richards
by Lisa Schnebly Heidinger
Retired in 2004, Richards may be as busy as he’s ever been. He still does ranch patrol as a volunteer for his old department. He teaches informal gun safety classes to friends and acquaintances. In a sunlit studio, Richards also paints meticulous studies in rich tones of the matchless scenery around Flagstaff. In keeping with his western bones, he loves to help out on roundups, cattle drives and riding fence for area ranches. And while he could be laurel-resting at this point, Richards also still seeks out history lessons.
“Stories of our past, and the things that went on, provide a richness. History is kind of a true north for what I feel about things.”
All rights reserved by author.
Tucson Refrain: A Double Sonnet
by Julie Morrison
Tucson is a saguaro in a cowboy hat knowing either could be wearing the other.
Tucson is the Sabino part of the Canyon—origin unknown and accepted as local.
Tucson is the stuck-on letters that make traffic signs into satire.
Tucson is the rolling r in arroyo.
Tucson worked hard to make captain, then discovered it doesn’t like managing troops.
Tucson is the bats choosing to live under the bridge with the highest traffic counts in town.
Tucson is also the haze of gnats, hunted by the bats as they swarm toward sunset.
Tucson is Grandmother’s belt of silver conchos today’s teenager feels is too formal.
Tucson is the spark of red hummingbird throat caught then mistaken for a camera flash.
Tucson is dancing the robot to clear space for a wheelchair-bound friend under a disco ball.
Tucson is trying for the perfect plank in goat yoga, not for photos, but the good of the goat.
Tucson is the tug at the corner of your mouth when someone mispronounces enchilada.
Tucson is the bells you can’t see, even though their chimes keep time for you.
Tucson is scarred by the skeletal outline of its state’s sunken ship.
Tucson is equally proud and disappointed you haven’t heard of it.
Tucson is having to remember where you put your winter coat.
Tucson is a crosswalk every quarter mile across the street named Speedway.
Tucson is the heart that will not be stopped, nor embittered, by a gunman.
Tucson is realizing the buzzard taking your measure from its studied circles is actually a hawk.
Tucson is rows of salsa jars at the corner market, but only one kind of spaghetti sauce.
Tucson asks how you met, and doesn’t care to ask what you do.
Tucson is a sky island floating in an arid sea.
Tucson is the tingle on your tongue and not your palms when someone says prickly pear.
Tucson is the punchline that’s more memorable than the comedian.
Tucson’s learned to expect its streams will run only seasonally.
Tucson is rattlesnake avoidance training for dogs, but ever-expanding homes in the foothills.
Tucson is space mirrors manufactured across the block from a generations-old tamale shop.
Tucson is a bloom much like a cactus flower: best enjoyed without picking at it.
Copyright 2025 Julie Morrison All rights Reserved.
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