When you think of the southwest, what comes to mind? Lizards, mesas, cactus, deserts, open spaces and heat. Summer in the desert leaves you picturing a dying man crawling across the sand searching for water with buzzards circling overhead.
Reality. It is snowing in Santa Fe. We are at high elevation, the wind is always cool and brisk, temperatures not so typical of desert stereotypes.
I dreamed last night of looking out the window of my car at snow. It wasn't a pleasant dream. I thought I was just restless, worried about the human scavengers and opportunists drawn by the light of the nearby 24 hour gas station. I dreamed what I am seeing now.
Dreams are slippery things. They are intangible, sometimes gone as quickly as they form. Two nights of traveling where my dreams felt like I had accidentally tuned in and become a character in someone else's dream, then snow. What an odd way to spend a Sunday morning in May.
Thoughts of spending the morning walking through the plaza enjoying the view of a farmer's market are lost in slush. The snow is moist like a frozen gas station drink without the garish dye.
Perhaps we will throw snowballs instead of admiring distant soft white clouds. When the desert is cold it is Cold. It reminds me of why I chose to leave the northeast. If I engineered such a fictional place as Hell, it would be cold and stark. There would be wet snow, dingy with mud and yellowed from the bladders of a thousand yapping dogs so no one would want to throw snowballs. Just a thought.
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