somewhere deep in the mountains a subtle hint of a breeze emerges.
slipping between branches and limbs.
leaves and evergreen needles shake the wind.
firing off a harmonious orchestra of what sounds like a million rattle snakes tails warning the clouds.
the breeze runs through gaps and grooves of the mountain drawing speed and energy.
going from a gust to gale force winds.
flowing into valleys and across a desert plain.
it has slowed it's pace now and toys with a tumble weed, skipping it across the baron terra.
up and over a ridge.
in front of my own eyes sheltered behind a sheet of glass and across a vein of concrete raised above the earthen skin.
and that is when i spot it, exit 230, Two Guns, Arizona.
if the land could reminisce, it would tell you it's tale of fires, due to arson,
an indian genocide, numerous curses, and failed empires.
but the land can only speak to those who truly have an ear readied for listening.
by the looks of the dying buildings and scarred land, no one has cared to open an ear in decades.
i pull along the powdery red dirt path and slip my car into park.
i can't help but sit and stare at this forgotten child in the sun.
weathered away by the years of sand blasted winds.
what's left of stone and mortar built homes are sanded smooth as tan glass.
the skeleton with the least decay is an old A-framed KOA camp ground building, turned gas station, turned empty.
this is two guns arizona.
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