The air here is rambunctious. This neighborhood is named for the the three small peaks that jut from the flat sage scrub plain like a gathering of purulent pimples or a man's triple nipples: Tres Orejos, three ears in Spanish. I imagine that the air has a desperate need to be heard and the ears here are such good listeners that the wind feels as if it can finally open up, finally be apprehended for the first time in a long while among the chaos of the human world, and now it won't shut up.
Sometimes the wind whispers, like this morning, while I sit outside in my red Adirondack chair, drinking coffee and writing in the early morning shade of the east side of my camper trailer. But sometimes the air roars, tossing over patio furniture and carrying trash across the mesa. Yet even that is nothing compared to the wind's full wrath when it picks up mounds of dirt and flings it across the neighborhood like a child might kick dirt in your eye during a tantrum. The dust disperses in enormous cl…
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