Conversation with the Moon

The crescent moon floats above me. A headlamp directs my feet. I deliver water to plants utterly dependent on it, relying on me to provide what they need to survive.

The place I came from has a mantra: Agua es vida. Water is life.

In a time of drought, I understand it deeply.

I came because my home was brittle. The earth cracked beneath my feet. I wanted green. I came to a valley where fruits and vegetables grow in abundance thanks to the North Fork of the Gunnison.

But the drought is closing in.

It's kicking our asses.

Do plants suffer the way we do?

I've learned that mother trees look after their babies. The plants I'm tending fall into three categories: thriving, wilting, dead. The difference is water.

I'm in a love-hate relationship with the woman who left this to me. It's strange she was born just one day before me. Unlike me, she spent thousands of dollars on plants, then left this Eden because it demanded more care than she could give. Like me, she loved it here.

It's 10:30 p.m. I'm eating dinner after running irrigation since one o'clock. The crescent moon will see me twice before dawn.

As I soak a struggling ponderosa, I wonder, Why are you here?

I'm asking the question of both the tree and myself.

I'm here to care for every living being on this land I am stewarding.

I'm here to witness transformation through regeneration.

I'm here to share what I learn.

The moon is watching.

I will show the moon.