There is hint of it here.
A trickle of spring melt deep below the surface that promises to fill a cold mountain stream that will wind its way through the foothills, by gravity and by pipe, giving false extravagance to golf courses and to bubble baths and to the small garden of perennials that Mrs. Simpson is trying to grow just like she did back in Ohio.
Snowpack would have made these winter woods unreachable in other years.
It used to be May, or even June, before the road opened to this adventure.
The breath of thirst is sour and pungent. The shadows of trees whisper of the whims of climate and weather and warn of deep, dried lines in earth and faces come June, of rain seen above the meadow in July but which will never make it all the way to the ground, of the drip, drip, drip that leaks away in garden hoses in August and of the start, in September, of another dry winter.
These woods need a heavy drink.
An hour away in Denver on this same day, the temperature neared 70 degrees and joggers, bikers, cyclists and tennis players worked up a hefty thirst.
“I live in a high desert and I am forever thirsty.”
Terry Tempest Williams