The day we drove across the sun-rotted Arizona mountains the tall, spindly ocotillo were a rich, British racing green in their temporary robe of leaves. And I have not yet seen the desert spring, the brief cacophony of flowering colour like a gaudy Easter bonnet on the usually prim librarian. But I'll sometimes sit in the desert, become like the rock, and wait for the creatures to stir. I surprised when a tortoise or hare, a ground squirrel or desert bird decides it's safe enough to venture from cover, from a bush or lair just a few feet from my sitting place. The desert strips away all that is not essential.
Movement is saved for flight or fight, to eat or escape being eaten.
And those of us who venture into the world's dry lands to stay for a while, stay still for a while, we sometimes strip from ourselves the non-essential. The desert is not a forgiving place but an exacting one. Error is not tolerated, fools not suffered at all. And then your soul will be willing for the spring monsoons. And it will not take all too much rain to raise the colourful blooms.