Water is Like Northern Lights, Ep. 43

juliemorrisonwrite
4 days ago
2 min read

Lisa leads a tour of the Rillito River during a flood before Julie returns to the rich winter grass of her childhood home.

Mug: Dunkin' Donuts

From Chief Yellowhorse Lives On!

by Lisa Schnebly Heidinger

When it rains, they run.

Arizona’s rivers and washes soar to life after a rainstorm like someone added water to concentrated crystals to create mega-mondo floods. Not just water casually filling the dry washes and low, dusty riverbeds. Not just runoff seeking larger tributaries. This is surging, unleashed water with an attitude: water with a fist planning a breakout.

The term “river” is largely a ceremonial title. But after two days of raging rain, it ran double-time, bank to bank.

I leave my napping baby daughter with my mom and race up to the Rillito. A sinkhole is forming on the jogging path I’ve run for years. What I know is altered: this is a parallel universe Tucson. A storm makeover.

I hear Oak Creek has slipped its banks and washed over the park of Los Abrigadoes Resort. Now the bridge I walked across with my dad to marry Tom is swept away. I’m reminded that we are not in charge. Nature permits us to live here. Like a management company. But the true owner can – and does –come in and make changes. Our landscaping is a privilege, not a right, that can be revoked.

Water in Arizona is like northern lights: brief, dazzling, powerful, and more meaningful because of its rarity.

A Sprig of Grass

(After I Celebrate Myself in Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman)

by Julie Morrison

I raise myself,

And what I feel, you will feel,

For every root feeding me, shall feed you.

I grow and honor the sun,

I sprout and grow as is my nature…despite changing sleeve-lengths on passers-by…

Paths flatten further underfoot…the earth pressed by paving,

I fold to the weight of walkers, then stand and smile

that exultant offroad traffic would crush me, but I reclaim my height.

Turf is not a velvet to be cut to clothe…it has no need of corners…it lives best edgeless,

It is my wild orgy…I am entwined with it,

I will reach my roots past the smack of sidewalk,

I am so eager to stretch beyond scape or shape,

The give of my groupings,

Buoyant under bare feet…soft, tufted,

still…verdant, thick,

My breath your air…my green your ease…my cuttings

The aroma of spring itself,

Pasture to your peace, meadow of daydreams,

My touch the cool of caves…my damp a valentine from rain…

We embrace…you throw out your arms…make angels

Of my blades, we both leave something of ourselves on the other,

Our play intimate or among the silliness of outfield crowds,

Or on your back pockets…brushed away though evergreen…

when you gather yourself for home.

Water is Like Northern Lights, Ep. 43

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