i want to think that i’m flexible, that i’m not tied to any particular place. this is proving not to be true. perhaps i should accept this.
the texas panhandle is glorious. mesocyclones steal over the green swells of the burgeoning high plain. they never announce themselves, just suddenly loom like your big brother when you’re searching underneath his mattress for the august issue. everything’s big in texas.
as i inched toward the border, i snapped a quick shot of the BNSF in my side mirror, all clacking, steaming, black smoking chugging snaking miles of the thing. streamed past silos before the landscape reddened and then turned dusty. when the first cinder cones shouldered over the horizon, i wept.