In an era of one-note punditry and homogenized wire feeds, Writers on the Range has offered us a breath of fresh western air. The air in the room is no less leaden than their words. Outside, thunder rumbles steadily. The monsoons are here. I breathe deep.
Lightning seams the clouds veiling the mountains.
We, in this Southwest high desert town, occupy two planets, one bright with weather, the other dully venal. I drive home through delicate rain, past what was once the Flamingo motel and is now a muddy lot. Construction has begun on the Barnes and Noble store. They must know how many of us feel, how we do not want them here, how we are prepared to resist. Thunder and lightning crack over my head.