I used to sit on the levy of the small ditch behind my parents two acre property and watch the tall blades of dry grass bend with the cold January wind on cold evenings when silence was a premium. Beyond the property was a gated desert where I once found partially decomposed Mexican pulp fiction novels in a large crater in the sand. I visited that hideout dozens of times, mostly to read, daydream, or to lay on the soft sandy rim, waiting for a jackrabbit to cross the sights of my .22 .
Beyond the desert was the larger levy of the Rio Grande, then the old highway that once led to Albuquerque. Further off in the distance was the warehouse and factory plant of a salsa company claiming its fame to being from El Paso. It was neither in El Paso or Texas. Beyond all of that, directly to the north stood the Organ Mountains, purple, blue, magenta, and various shades of orange in the daylight's last minutes.
The cold air and wind burned my cheeks and nostrils as I stared at the mountains through the tall yellow grass. I could see everything all at once. Nothing entered my mind. Clouds built above the mountain range, dissipated, then dissolved into the dark skies of space.
I know this place. I sleep here, where jackrabbits scamper and dogs bark at ghosts.