Sally Molini High Desert Drive Thirty miles away, inertia has claimed the cabin, a few lines scrawled and left to themselves. Porch paint curled up in spots revealed nothing new — a yard full of skunk, yucca and the sky's blank page, unattainable reservoir of shadow along the rocks.  No destination, just the road's constant arrival and a black bull standing by a hay shed — another sign telling me what I already know.  U-turn in a Joshua grove, the trees' twisted arms reaching to console as the a/c breaks down, empty of direction.

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