There is water standing in the fields on either side of Highway 99. The ground simply can’t hold any more. The shallow black-bottomed lake beds where onions are grown during the summer, are now winter water-resorts for birds, including gulls that ride in on the high winds, making their sixty-mile journey from the grand Pacific in an hour. Their white bodies are bright in the sun, their wings a fine line in blue consciousness. And we are here among them, poised, love, to disappear.