Grandfathered In

When you look north from our house, you see one of the many saguaro (sah-hwarro) cacti that are the symbols of Tucson and the Sonoran Desert, and beyond it, the Tortolito Mountain range. A particularly fine specimen punctuates the skyline.

The life of a saguaro is hard. Conditions do not have to change much to make it nearly impossible for them to survive.

A quarter turn, to east, shows another saguaro with a particularly outsized arm; large enough so that the weight of it as it continues to demand more than its share of nutrients, will likely one day become too much of a strain for the shoulder joint--rather like a Sandy Koufax of the Cactus League.
Another, nearby, displays that something has gone wrong with what is usually a straight main trunk, and that a new arm on the "other" side is stretching out as a slow-moving counterweight.

And between them, closer to our yard fence, a particularly fine ocotillo (oh-co-tiyo) is demonstrating what it can do, having situated itself where it can take advantage of even the smallest hillside runoff.

A smaller member of the same family has established itself next to our mailbox, but the Postal Service moves slowly enough to that--so far--we have had not had complaints.

When the time comes, I think I know whose side I will take, and I have already decided that the most I will do is to corral it gently at its base and let it go up and snag as many birds and low-flying clouds as it wishes, like the one out back.

They were here first.

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