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Waiting
Road falls south through red dirt unbroken till desert rises on the edge of it. Nothing holds it down but miles of irrigation. Still, tractors stir cyclones of dust that turn and turn and scatter to desert that would meet them here if the water ran out. Cotton lies abandoned like snow where it fell at harvest time, white under blue pale with the patience of a desert waiting for the wells to run dry. Here and there a house tumbles down into a field but for every one there is a church standing and not a sign of Jesus in this place that does not end with an exclamation. © Steven Schroeder
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