This is not a Metaphor

Out West? No water. An essay from my forthcoming collection.

When we drove into the blistered land, north on 84, I thought of the rows of seats inside the opera house and the lively restaurants that smelled like frying flour and roasting chicken.

That summer in Santa Fe, we lived out west of town. We slept with the windows open. We wanted to feel the desert blow through, cool the house down. We heard coyotes most…