My mom says that in Las Vegas, you garden with a pickaxe.
The desert resists this way of living.
Every house has a two-car garage and no basement. Everyone saved the money for the excavation for their in-ground pool. In Las Vegas in the summer, it is 110 degrees in the shade. No one goes outside, except to use the in-ground pool. Air-conditioned cars drive into air-conditioned garages and people slip inside without ever seeing the sun.
The desert resists this way of living.
In the desert there are canyons where the deep shade holds the chill of night. In the desert are rivers flowing through the heat of summer, cool water from the aquifer, carried here through the earth from distant rains.
The dam floods the canyon and the river water, trapped, evaporates by the gallon in the hot sun.
Under the water in the reservoir are old footpaths, ancient trees, carvings in the cliff.
The dam draws water away to the thirsty city and its desperate lawns and fountains, the dam churns out the power that keeps the city alight.
Las Vegas rises from the desert like a mirage, like a heat-stroke hallucination, like a fever dream. Las Vegas swallows the river and the power and the wealth of far-off places and all these things evaporate under the desert sun.
In the desert, there are towering cacti which bloom only at night. Their sweet nectar draws the bats. In the desert, the purple evening is just cool enough to walk in, and the bats follow you and dance around you, drawn to the bugs which are drawn to your skin. The red rock radiates sun-heat back into the deep sky. In night time, the desert breathes, and the stars are more brilliant than anything you’ve ever seen.
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