So each saguaro seems to be permanently miming a different gesture, or in the case of the many-armed ones, several gestures, as in Hindu sculpture. I call them individualists because they all look so different, and because in the wild they do not grow close together, but space themselves out at generous intervals, as if they did not like each other very much. Also, they are ferocious. Their spines are not only sharp but thick and stiff, and sit in their ribbed flesh very firmly. There is a true story about a drunken idiot who was shooting at a saguaro, and it fell on him and killed him.
Poetic justice is the only kind available to plants.
I loved the saguaros especially in spring, when those grim old grandfathers crown themselves with flowers, in solemn imitation of the wildflowers that tumble gaily about their feet. I loved them, and I wish I could go back and see them, even though it is not spring now. Lawrence, for all his sermonizing, does not make me feel this way about nature. He only makes me feel glum and resentful.