Now the deer come down to drink and browse in the catclaw acacia. Desert holly glistens by the swollen December river.
Suddenly a blue heron busts out of a winter thicket, flies big-winged by us in the rain. His blue body is dark against the bleached sycamore trunks.
I look into the yellow current and see the little trout that imitate the shadow movement of the great bird, now gone.
The wind wrinkles the pool, I watch, perfectly calm as they perform the impossible - breathe in the waterair the deer and I must drink.