This old saguaro bends, arms too heavy for the trunk, two pressed down to the ground like crutches that keep it standing.
I know the feeling — knees gone, back stiff in the mornings, each step a small negotiation with the earth below.
They say the cactus has lived a hundred years, maybe two — having seen men die younger, and still it leans, still it finds a way to stay upright, though gravity has claimed every inch of it.
I used to think I could resist— work harder, drink less, walk farther, but the cactus tells me the truth: sooner or later, you bow down.
What matters is how long you keep your arms in the air, catching light, refusing to be silenced, before the earth pulls you all the way down.
“Now I’ve been out in the desert, just doin’ my time Searchin’ through the dust, lookin’ for a sign If there’s a light up ahead, well brother I don’t know But I got this fever burnin’ in my soul”
— from Further On (Up The Road) by Bruce Springteen
No matter where you live in North America, the sounds of summer are occasionally made by cicadas. In the desert southwest where, particularly large cicadas known as “cactus dodgers” (Cacama valvata) perch on prickly pear (Opuntia spp.) and cholla (Cylindropuntia imbricata) cacti and sing their loud, distinctive songs in the scorching, mid-summer heat.
Bloom — is Result — to meet a Flower And casually glance Would cause one scarcely to suspect The minor Circumstance Assisting in the Bright Affair So intricately done Then offered as a Butterfly To the Meridian — To pack the Bud — oppose the Worm — Obtain its right of Dew — Adjust the Heat — elude the Wind — Escape the prowling Bee Great Nature not to disappoint Awaiting Her that Day — To be a Flower, is profound Responsibility —