- It smelled like rain. The desert landscape was dry as a bone, and the tires kicked up plumes of dirt as the dusty old pickup truck crept along the dirt road. Anyone who has lived in the desert long enough knows that, even on the driest day, the mesquite bush, when disturbed, gives off the familiar smell of fresh rain.
- He did not belong there, the stranger driving the well worn Ford. In fact, this was his first trip out on the reservation, although his parents often spoke of the land of their parents. The green and white flashes of the airport beacon off to his right shone thru the dust streaked windows, and reflected off of the buckle on his hat, and the traditional turquoise and bone jewelry he wore around his neck.
- The stranger was dressed all in black, in a worn and threadbare suit that the thrift shop in Albuquerque charged him ten dollars for. The boots were a parting gift from an old friend, who knew that he was never to return. Only the hat was his own, a felt cowboy hat that had been his sole companion for most of his adult life. The eagle feather woven into his long grey braid fluttered in the wind as he rolled down the window and adjusted the side mirror again.
- He was almost to his destination, to the home he had never known. To the land that his grandparents had both been born on, and had both died on. The land of his people, even though until now, he had never even been to that part of the state. Soon, he’ll be home. And soon, he’ll die.
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