When I finally reach New Mexico’s eastern border, I’ve been driving for two days. There are no towns, only plants along the highway. I have no name for them beyond desert brush. I hit seek on the radio, and the dial searches through the bands.
A swath of dark blue on the horizon . . . As I drive, the blue bruises to black. Bright desert sands deepen to dusk. The wall of clouds drops closer.
When the rain hits, I brake and clench the wheel. Heavy drops hammer the hood like nails. The car in front of me disappears. I brake harder, grateful the white truck is no longer tailgating, and struggle to find my hazard lights.
a view of sky
The rain passes so suddenly I look behind me to see if it was real. The windshield wipers squeak, and I fumble with the knob. Breathe. As the salted scent of rain flows through the vents, I remember the return trip home.
an abandoned car
in the dirt