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Wind stirs the methane fog smothering Amarillo’s feedlots. Tumbleweeds skitter by the thousands, chase the preacher’s wife off the highway. We find her staring blindly, neck bent at an impossible angle.
Photos of the 1910 hanging disgust a Yankee traveler, frowning at the Dairy Queen display. Those teenagers carrying a bat aren’t headed to the ballfields. Trees are broken and mean, twisted by generations of drought, driving sand.
We run the streets all day, turn home at dark to lie in grass. Old folks drone like locusts from screened-in porches, talking troubles we’ve never heard of. No one has.
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