As I write this, a mountain of clouds is building over my house. It’s growing darker, and I’m feeling the corners of my mouth turning up. Yesterday at a meeting in Chama, it rained for an hour. In the time it took to write that sentence, I’m starting to hear raindrops on the roof. So I guess the monsoon has arrived and all our problems are solved.

I know, I know. Isn’t it fun, though, to get a big jolt of hope? If for no other reason than to see the clouds crawling across the forests, to imagine animals walking out into the middle of a downpour for a nice cool rinse or rolling in a wallow, a moment of pretending might be called for.

I say this knowing that just yesterday, some rancher friends of mine say their cows are coming home looking for water. Other friends are getting in trouble for their cows going down to the creek. Even though the Jemez have been getting some afternoon storms, the ground is still hard as a rock, and the grass isn’t growing fast enough. The cows, and no doubt plenty of other animals, are parched. And the creeks are taking a beating.

The headwaters of Canjilon Creek are dry. The stream’s handful of surviving cutthroat trout are stranded in puddles separated by dry streambeds and are at risk of disappearing for all time. I’m not exaggerating. Forever. Certainly Canjilon isn’t the only stream running on fumes.

It’s weird to make such an observation without also suggesting a solution that can be pulled off the shelf and put into action. Or, in the spirit of today’s media culture, there’s got to be someone to blame. As much as I hate to dust off the worst of tautologies, I have to say it: it is what it is. I’m afraid that’s all the satisfaction we’re going to get.

If those of us who aren’t devoutly religious haven’t done so already, perhaps it’s time to surrender to fate or, if we’re feeling confident that we might wield some influence, it might simply feel good to say a prayer or two or a thousand. We think of praying as asking for things, which certainly doesn’t hurt. But we can also give thanks. Clouds and even a few drops of rain offer an infinity of reasons to be grateful, as every churchgoer and farmer well knows. This urge to pray isn’t directed at them. It’s for me.

Our drying headwater streams will have water in them soon. If this isn’t true, it is at least unfalsifiable. I’ll take those odds. The only alternative is to mope around the house thinking that all is lost, evidenced by the news on our TVs or smart phones. What relief will come from thinking this way? What satisfaction?

I’d rather lift up my head and marvel at the rain, maybe take in a lungful of freshened air like it’s the last I’ll ever take. Or, as the case may be, the first. That it’s falling now is as sure a sign as any that it will fall again. Prove me wrong.