Somewhere near where the granite rocks replace some of the trees, just after rain, you’ll tend to see some puddles forming. We walk the lower trail and drink from the flowers of dripping bottlebrushes. And when I wonder if we’ve brought enough water, that’s when we see the puddles in front of us. The water has been caught by depressions in the rock—flowing down, if puddle is full, to lower ones—whole chains of puddles in some spots. I look for the highest ones in any area, take off my cap, bend down and kiss its surface, sucking through lips as I kiss it. It is clean and clear and fresh, maybe a few quartz pebbles on the bottom, reflecting nothing but clouds and sky and my own bending down to meet it.