Amalaya

In Sonora, there's a word for this feeling.

Amalaya.

It's what the farmer says when he plants in dry soil and looks at a sky with no clouds. Not a complaint. Not a demand. A quiet offering to whatever decides when the rain comes.

It's what you feel at dawn when the desert turns the sky red and copper and something that has no name — and you wish it would stay.

Amalaya means I wish.

But that's not what it means.

It's the wanting that doesn't break you.

The peace of a people who learned that the desert delivers everything.

Just never on your schedule.