top of page


Legs long in the stirrups, I sit watching the rivets and washboards of the creek below. Listening to the sound of silt moving across the desert floor, its folds and soft adobe molded by time.

The wind rises from behind. The breath of it fresh on my sun-drenched skin and I ride with head tipped back as if gazing up to the stars yet there are none.

A gauze of clouds stretches across the horizon, ribbon of blue sky beneath, and the dust reaches upward blending the two until only gray is left. Yellow desert grass lies in waves like thick hair lovingly brushed and a jackrabbit darts for cover.

We ride through a tangle of tumbleweeds and into open dirt littered with dead mesquites, sinking into ground pock-marked by mouse holes. Zig zagging our way through. I squeeze the reins half-halting the horse and sit back in my seat. He wants to run.

The rattle of wind stops me at the draw and I pause watching it glide through the thick - cutting a narrow path and lifting my hair as it passes like the ghost of an invisible freight train. I turn to watch but there is nothing. Only felt and heard, in a moment it's gone and but a sliver of sun remains.

I should have let him run.


bottom of page