April. Phoenix. Desert Botanical Garden.
A new discovery. Hills like sleeping and curled up dragons in shades of dusky mauves and purples, sculpted by wind, scattered with sage greens of prickly pear and cordone or saguaro. Columns drilled with holes by woodpeckers, cactus that form "boots" inside where the woodpecker hollowed out space safe above the ground for his nest. Violet shadows. Golden showers of palo verde blossoms.
A quail threads his way through vegetation on the ground, top not bouncing on his head. Hummingbirds darting among hot pinks, oranges and deep reds of spring blooms. A hawk watches over the throngs of Sunday garden visitors from his aerie atop a curled, dusty dragon. Light, shade. Hot, cool. Butterflies, dragonflies. Somewhere a roadrunner. I seek the sun. Slide into shade beside a pool. Strange bird songs. I feel as though I am in a boneyard, a sculpture garden, a nest.