After a night that may not have even dipped below 50, the morning is warm, rich, brings random drops of rain that patter into and scatter the deep dust in puffs, tick on the brim of my Stetson, set silvery rings off across The Stockpond. It doesn’t amount to anything measurable, and the prognostications for the coming month don’t give hope there will be. We’re not the first in Arizona who have ever wondered about the range that is in their care, “Will it all last long enough to keep the cattle on up there through May?” Should it not, that will have to be taken in stride and with that certain, time-tested expansive and philosophical outlook for which the ranching world is famous, a “that was then, this is now” roll-with-it flexibility. For this morning, then, I’ll celebrate this air that honors my inner Resurrection Fern, and see what tomorrow brings or takes away.