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Dennis Magliozzi

Badlands

Drenched in the light of the setting sun, we sit. Shannon reads a book while I write in my journal. Occasionally, I look up from the page to watch the shadows crawl across the desultory mountaintops. With each passing moment, the varied spires, peaks and pinnacles take on new dimensions.

The natives, I have read, called this land “maco sica,” land bad, The Badlands.

To the east, vast and vacant grasslands underline a darkening sky line. The clouds, gun-metal gray, hang like a dark curtain across the horizon. Repeated flashes of lightning scribble their marks across the underbellies of clouds followed by the clap of far-off thunder.

The setting sun has let go of the heat and the cool scent of dusk and rain registers in the foothills where we camp.

A single droplet falls onto a page in my journal and spreads its water across the page.

Sunlight fades
Behind the mountains –
A rainbow vanishes