The clouds are persisting, holding tightly to one another in a fuzzy, grey haze over the sagebrush and cacti, blurring the lines of the horizon. The old power lines that are traveling along with me just outside my window -- they've seen better days. The rough-hewn logs are weathered and knotty, the differently colored glass insulators are fogged with age, the wires sag and slack, seeming obsolete until they meet with one of the more sturdy, fatherly posts.
We just crossed the Pecos River on the highest expansion bridge in the United States (at least I think that's what the loudspeaker lady just said). We're trawling slowly but purposefully along the southern border of Texas, about to hit Langtry, Dryden, Sanderson, Marathon, then Alpine. Peggy, our in-charge hostess on car 2130, has informed me that I'll need to lug my belongings to the next car to exit the train. No problem, I tell her. Peggy is a bustling gal, undeniably proud of the work she does for Amtrak, and had a hard night what with all of the bothersome practical issues due to the gully-washer in New Braunfels.
Gillian and David, the Revelator record, are the perfect companions for this desolation, this hard limestone and craggy landscape. There's a noticeable absence of birds out here. I saw one crow on a power line's crossbeam, and a predatory bird of some sort, floating motionless in the atmosphere above some unfortunate critter.
"Oh I dream a highway back to you, love...."
