The coyotes in the distance howled and echoed, a call and response. An owl who-who-hoots one last time before the sun peeked over the hills behind. Finally. The Sangre de Cristos loom to twelve thousand feet and the valley is tucked on the northwest side. If you took the footpath through the junipers, you could see all the way from Pacheco Canyon across to the Jemez Mountains. It’s so quiet that you can hear cars drive up from the highway, a mile away. In these mountains, River, a twenty-something kid wearing a dusty old cowboy hat and polished boots, sat alone on a porch overlooking the national forest and late sunrise, just like they had over the years at Grandad’s ranch, reminiscent of that morning routine of coffee, breakfast, people milling around, others working, life as it was in a big family.
That morning, River heard the truck as it slowly approached and pulled in at the gate.
River muttered, – Seriously?
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