Morning Smoke

One skein of smoke

rising against brown hills,

solitary fire.

I suspect that living in a remote area encourages a morbid fascination with neighbors. I'm especially fascinated with the little settlement to the South of us, a collection of hybrid dwellings that appear to be uninhabited -- most of the time. But every now and then, I spot a tantalizing scrap of evidence of life. A plume of smoke on a frosty winter morning, a battered white truck pulling up to the settlement, an outdoor fire burning on a windy January evening. We've actually seen our neighbor walking around his property, and Eric met him once at the Polish convenience store in Blanca. In the evening, when I turn the solar panels to the East to catch the next sunrise, I look to the South to see if I can spot the lights on our neighbor's house. We're never really sure if he's there or not, or how he comes and goes, or what he does. But we are certain he exists. A neighbor's existence is always reassuring.

The second photo is not our neighbor's house; it's our front yard. The wooden structure once held a cistern that collected water from our well pump. I later filled it with tumbleweeds and left it in the yard, where I've unofficially declared it "land art." In Denver, this would violate about ten different zoning regulations.