In snowy, icy January up north, I shoveled. I like to shovel--it is a way to be outdoors even in the winter wind, keeping my body warm by the rhythm of scrape, lift, throw... scrape, lift, throw. Once in awhile I stand still and just breathe. The quiet whirl of flakes comes in a flurry out of the darkness. Then I shovel some more, taking to heart yet again that we are part of the earth and sky, not in control of it.

Down in Arizona, after two long airplane flights and not enough food, we emerge with our suitcases into sunlight. We blink, and snack, find a hotel, and sleep. In the morning, as we climb into a rental car and look for the road to Tucson, a red-tailed hawk appears above our front windshield and leads the way southward.

So begins our twenty-eighth wintertime in the Sonoran Desert. Time drops away when we are here. Our moments in this place form a sunlit stream that curves through our deepest being. Yellow brittle bush is already blooming at the edges of I-10. The desert floor is green with winter-spring monsoon rains. In Tucson the animals and birds are dancing everywhere: newborn javelina running with their parents, the mother bobcat roaring to protect her first year youngster, then three coyotes racing past us, heedless of humans while in wild pursuit of a cottontail rabbit they did not catch.

And who could predict the Harris Antelope Squirrel, someone we had not known about before. Or the phainopepla, gila woodpeckers, verdins, cactus wrens, roadrunners, harriers, Harris Hawks, hummingbirds, mockingbirds, Cooper's Hawks, and blue-gray gnatcatchers. Oh--and the butterflies! How could I have forgotten that butterflies exist?! Monarchs, in a strong comeback from last year. And a bright deep gold butterfly we still need to look up. Oh, and yes! The Great Horned Owl, who has sung to us ever since we arrived, from the mesquite tree outside our window--at sunset, in the deep of night, and when a new day is breaking. Now I am wordless, in amazement and praise.