Cloud Dancers

My town drinks from a river that forgot how to run, under a sky that forgot how to cry. Most townspeople call it the "Mighty" Gallinas, though a week ago it ran nearly dry, barely trickled past sun-punished reeds. You could drop a match and light the sky. You could breathe the local green chili stew and ignite the trees, evaporate the train station, the haunted Casteneda Hotel, the dilapidated roundhouse. The city administration voted extreme drought rules into effect a few months ago. No watering lawns! Restaurants can't wash coffee mugs, and the other night I walked past the restored wild west hotel where Roosevelt's Rough Riders held their first reunion in 1899, stood at the window, watched the bar where Doc Holliday held medical court. The bartender mixed good gold tequila and fresh lime in a salt-rimmed Dixie cup. Tough times.

My skin caught dust like my car windshield, left a soft patina of grime along my bare legs, my arms. Most days I kick my cowboy boots against the ground, let the loose dirt fly to heaven. No grass keeps it close to the ground, nothing alive, nothing awake beneath my feet. Please rain, I asked the blue above me, asked God, asked anyone, anything who might listen. Please rain. Please help us. The Gallinas continued to fade.

My neighbor shrugged his shoulders when I brought up the endless sun.

"Birdie, this is nature's circle. We must complete the cycle. Rain will come when it's time."

I remembered his words when the hint of monsoon began in the days before Fiestas, when sparse rains left the suggestion of water against the parched earth. A few sprinkles here, a handful of hail there, maybe an inch in a week. Not nearly enough to swell the river and give us hope.

I walked to the Plaza to enjoy the party music, plenty of sunscreen slathered on my bare arms. I could hear the primal beat of a taut drum. Five dancers shook the dance stage, three women and two men in feathers and beaded leather, the Danza Azteca de Anahuac. Tiny walnuts tied to their shoes made the noise of a rattlesnake as their legs and arms moved in unison. The scent of pinon incense rose above them, rose in prayer to the heavens. The men pounded flat, octagonal drums while the women shook rattles. They paused, bent low to the ground in thanks, then faced the audience.

"We just came from Monument Valley where we danced for rain. Now we'll dance here in Las Vegas for rain. Please join us on the stage if you'd like to dance for rain, too."

I hesitated, but only for a moment. A small stream of people filed onto the platform, moved between the Aztec dancers. I climbed the stairs and found an empty spot near a dancer with sparkly embroidered snakes on her ornamental gown. The dance began, and I followed the motions of the music shamans who traveled such long distances to bring water from the skies. I lifted my legs, my arms, my eyes in time to the drums. The sacred smoke burned my throat but I didn't stop until the last vibration of mallet against skin blew with the wind to the Great Plains.

I walked home, the sky still bright, still casting sour shadow on the ground.

The rain dance didn't work, I thought.

An hour later the skies grew sleepy, grew dark. The rains fell, fell hard and restless against the ground.