This morning I’m surrounded by brilliant flashing light. All the fresh green leaves are snapping in the wind, while the sun could sear the eyebrows off your face. The air is cold, of course, the sky dark blue-black overhead. A typical New Mexico morning at 7,000 feet. Two hundred yards from where I sit, a landowner with a mini-bulldozer scraped a six-foot-wide path through sagebrush and cactus yesterday to make room for a fence that no one needs, mashing the edge of a 1,000-year-old kiva in the process.
“Watch out, you’re driving over the kiva!” my neighbor called out to him.
“It’s okay, that’s on Chacon’s property,” he said.
When I walk up the mesa to look back down on Taos valley, I can still see where I sank into the mud two Februarys ago. If I knew where to look, I could find the tracks from where I saw a pack of dogs hounding a crippled, foam-slobbering deer a year before that. Shark bait, all of it, even the the air so clean you’d have to get a license to breathe it anywhere else.
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