The image of New Mexico water I used to conjure was of my father irrigating the pasture, knee-deep in the thick muddy stuff from a lateral ditch in Alameda. Today I picture lawyers in dark suits with tidy hair. I want to see them instead with shovels in their hands, wearing overalls and straw hats, opening head gates and letting water flow over their boots onto the sighing soil. The smell of wet dirt is irresistibly appealing. I imagine that the green bloom of valley life along the Rio would overtake their greediest clients, sucking them down into the thick rio muck. Water lawyers would all become farmers and master gardeners.