The wheels turned off the pavement to dust. We bounced over the transition. The road was level, no washboarding and I accelerated painting a trail of dust to the mountain. I follow the girls names, zigzagging and fish-tailing the back, never mind the sloshing gasoline.
The dust line ends at my gallows gate. Beyond it is a metaphor and a lot of hard work. I roll the wheels beyond and stop. The road noise is swallowed by the sweltering heat. And it is sweltering.
I pull the thermometer from its packaging and watch the red line rise. Inside the house it stops at 108. Despite this number, the desert is alive. The wind blows, hot as an oven. There is the constant hum of insects and the birds we've displaced chirp and twitter.
We sit inside, in that heat, drinking effervescent wine. I look around at the bare beams, the crumbing insulation, the buckling floor, the jerry-rigged windows. My eyes soak in the view, looking for clues in the rusty nails, the window frames. My mind works the ratiocination. My imagination creates stories of the past, possibilities of the future. My body suffers in the heat and calculates the effort of these possibilities. For now, enjoying the cool bubbles.