Besides the dazzling performance of Sandra Cisneros, the highlight for me at San Miguel de Allende’s Sixth Annual International Writers Conferenced this past February was the Carnitas Fest at Simple Choice Farm on the road to Jalpa and the Talking Gourds Fire Circle, co-led with poet/teacher Judyth Hill of “Wage Peace” fame — shadows of […]
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If, like me, you find that floating down some remote canyon on a 100-plus-degree day in Utah necessitates the life-saving presence of copious cans of ice-cold beverages, then you understand the complex nature of determining the correct quantity to pack.
Her eyes follow me as I row toward the boat ramp, and a ghost-like feeling from years ago creeps up my spine, icy and tentacle-like. It’s like when Billy died. No, it’s not that bad. Can’t be. I couldn’t take it if it were.
Gone are the native plants, the animals and fish that once thrived here. Denied water, the river’s bed of sand has grown lifeless, its banks fallen in. The near horizon opens on barren fields. Fields where food was once grown, irrigated by arterial acequias.
They thought it was probably going to start dropping soon. The river was already higher than any flood since the gauges went in back in the ’20s, so the safe bet for forecasters was to say it had just about peaked. “Highest water ever recorded” would be a fair statement.