I can imagine someone who found br these fields unbearable, who climbed br the hillside in the heat, cursing the dust, br cracking the brittle weeds underfoot, br wishing a few more trees for shade. br br An Easterner especially, who would scorn br the meagerness of summer, the dry br twisted shapes of black elm, br scrub oak, and chaparral, a landscape br August has already drained of green. br br One who would hurry over the clinging br thistle, foxtail, golden poppy, br knowing everything was just a weed, br unable to conceive that these trees br and sparse brown bushes were alive. br br And hate the bright stillness of the noon br without wind, without motion. br the only other living thing br a hawk, hungry for prey, suspended br in the blinding, sunlit blue. br br And yet how gentle it seems to someone br raised in a landscape short of rain— br the skyline of a hill broken by no more br trees than one can count, the grass, br the empty sky, the wish for water.