On the road from Portales to Clovis
sand mixes with cloud,
the air thick with grainy patches where dust
joins with air in a raucous dance
ignoring the people below
ignoring the animals in their burrows
ignoring the cows eating, heads down, haunches up,
not a care in the world.
It’s not beautiful.
The sky is milky, a bleeding together of dust and cloud,
a thick mustard yellow soup
no green to be seen, just browns, yellows,
a few bare trees on dusty earth,
land stretching as far as the eye can see
pockmarked by yellowish-greenish-brownish shrub.
It’s not beautiful,
But it’s intriguing nonetheless.