I awoke this morning at 4am, staring up at the smoke detector’s red light staring back at me. Fat raindrops clinked on the dry gutter, the pats becoming crowded until the sound showered the roof with a roaring rain. I tossed in bed, restlessly wondering whether I’d closed the car’s sunroofs, until the rain became steady and sedate.

We had a playdate this morning. I love it when our home is full of kids, reassembling pretense and climbing over each other, cutting up the quiet order with their happy chatter. In the front’s wake, the sun shone brilliantly through zero atmosphere, as it does on mountaintops. While the boys played with the Millenium falcon on the driveway, I picked up a transparent purple beach ball and a racketball racket, volleying the ball against the garage door. I could slam it satisfyingly hard, with all my might, and it would cheerfully float back to the racket without complaining. Occasionally a gust would blow it towards the yuccas, but I’d run after it, flip-flops flapping, and slam the ball back towards the house, losing sight of it to the blinding sun.

The oaks and grasses sparkled in the sun but barely waved in the rolling wind, while three red-tailed hawks spun round overhead, crying into the canyon. Black vultures weaved in and out of each other, as commuter jets suspended long white threads behind them all, high up in the stratosphere. The Texas Mountain Laurel, blooming violet and happy, smells like grape bubble gum. The weatherman proclaims a weak year for wildflowers; we haven’t had enough rain.

It’s night now, and the moon has gilded the landscape with pale white light. I am counting all the toys I’m too lazy to go outside and pick up: two kids bicycles, a basketball hoop, several balls, two or three cups, a frisbee and a Tonka truck. They shine and sparkle under the constellations, and I could release the kids to play outside as it is, if they weren’t leaden with sleep in the bed. Besides, the coyotes are beginning to wail.