I live just south of Deming, New Mexico on a little farm with a wife and two kids, two dogs, and a cat that no longer 'mouses'. It's a poor community of suffering refugees from the needles and nettles of life. If it doesn't sting or bite you here, it will poke you. You may dig your post hole here, or dig your grave, and the wind will come and fill the hole with tumbleweed...then, keep you alive to laugh at you with dust. I've never seen a bigger bunch of pricks...Cholla, Paddle cactus, mesquite...Embrace any living thing here at your risk...then, thank God you were chosen to take the risk, for there is something else among these prickly rows of Gods garden. There is a silence, loud as star shout...whispering...whispering...a beauty beyond description, in every stone and stillness. The mountains speak and give their secret shapes to you...the sigil's of their lost ways. Fata Morgana shimmers in the sunrise light of Luna County, as mountains shift and move to dances with enchantment of mirage. The children...ah, the children's loving faces here...the gap toothed smiles and waves of old farmers...the boots and latigo of living legend, where the ghosts of cowboys, long since passed, still walk along. I live here, and I love it here...although...I am just a 'newbee'.Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016
Photo Credit: WBM Enterprises. Organ Mountains, New Mexico
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