A century of empty miles, nowhere to rest
between Las Vegas and Ratón.
The scrub-brush residents here
root tenaciously in the red-orange soil.
New world vultures circle overhead,
beady-eyed, greedy to sound the alarm
on invaders thinking to dig up splintered
bones of stinking cedar or sugar pine.
Enigmatic cloud shadows dash and dot
across the shrugged shoulders of the high mesa
with a silent warning for travelers to move on.
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