Over the mesa shines the elder star. He is old baked brown and wrinkled ’round the clouds, and far too close. My people smile, living in spaces between cracks, fissures in rock where persistent gnarled streams cut canyons. There, we have different sorts of ghosts towns, empty corrals hand-made by people who now have either no husband or no wife, grand-persons left behind to listen to a slowly strangled wind. They, fluent in everything that mattered before, mist slowly into history.