Turkey vultures circle high overhead, but they’re not here for me. Maybe something in the neighborhood. There’s no telling what folks get into in these parts, especially since no one in the immediate vicinity has ever told me the whole truth about anything. (Dark underbelly of the code of the West.) Illegal loose dogs, illegal horses—one guy keeps a poor brown one in a tight little pen—no one owns the road, illegal everything. Houses with no plumbing or building permits. Old hippies with guns, too—the last time I visited, there was an assault rifle stashed in the low kitchen ceiling, ready to grab. Guys run stop signs at fifty miles per hour in a cloud of dust.
An appropriate backdrop for the national emergency. Just add Twitter. Trouble is, you learn more about the country than you ever wanted to. And here I thought I’d been around.