A fence of eucalyptus spiked into the parched ground dull and browner than the road that points to other canyons lying still as empty troughs. Dry winds make the only sound. Wrapped up with the heat even lifeless burrs cannot be pushed. Nothing but the dust moves silently in little stirs. Even with the summer rain, the sudden break in clouds, late before a dropping sun, that caused the trees to glow below a charcoal sky, I saw the shadows stretch across the road like prison bars, and then the clouds fused tight again across the sun.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com