Under The Old Ash Tree
In a country that takes more than it gives, a man delivers the dead to the roots of an old ash tree.
The mule stood still in the morning hush, its ears twitching at the wind that moved in dry currents through the mesquite and creosote. There was a silence about the land that did not welcome voices, nor did it yield to memory without cost. The man moved slowly through it, burdened not just by age but by the weight of something far heavier than years. A weight shaped like absence. In the lean shade of the adobe wall, he cr...
