I moved to Las Vegas, New Mexico, from a frantic coastal town north of San Diego. I moved to be closer to the gifts of nature, to escape the endless highway crawl where cars roast in the road, sit and oscillate against a backdrop of perpetual construction. I choose Las Vegas over the internet, chose it over a thousand other …

My brother-in-law pressed a button on his laptop. The screen faded to black. My sister and I sat cross-legged on the hotel bed as the screen flickered to life, spat shadows of the Manhattan skyline, the Statue of Liberty against our bare legs. Rain hit the window beside us, hit it hard, but I didn’t notice the thunder. My eyes …

I stared at the newspaper clipping hanging on my fridge every time I reached for milk. Free Salsa lessons every Wednesday night at 8 p.m. on the Plaza! I almost didn’t attend. Babysitters aren’t cheap. But the paper taunted me, whispered dreams of a man who would pull me too close, be dangerous with his arms and legs, lead my …

Our river harbors secret miracle workers. You can’t see them when you cross the simple blue and white bridge that connects the east and west sides of Las Vegas. They labor in the muddy water that follows the north pathway, behind overgrown brush and discarded beer bottles, in the ripe space between our fractured sections of town. Beavers. A colony, …

When movie cameras focus on the dusty Mexican border replica spanning the University Ave bridge, they will capture the dark hours before sunrise. A man bleeding from a bullet wound will carry a battered valise filled with two million dollars cash, money found in a West Texas field littered with a dozen dead victims of a drug deal gone bad. …

Both my sons stared at me Saturday morning. I sat on my bed, surrounded by piles of product, padded envelopes, my heart determined to catch up with work. My arms couldn’t meet my desire, shook from fatigue as I carefully inspected each item.
“C’mon, Mom. Let’s go do something. We haven’t gone anywhere in weeks.” My oldest son, 11, accented weeks …

My town drinks from a river that forgot how to run, under a sky that forgot how to cry. Most townspeople call it the “Mighty” Gallinas, though a week ago it ran nearly dry, barely trickled past sun-punished reeds. You could drop a match and light the sky. You could breathe the local green chili stew and ignite the trees, …