Virga

My New Mexican skies pour black streaks down into arid brown mountains. The rain in the distance evaporates before it touches dusted ground. Virga. I'm waiting at the bus station 12 miles out of Las Cruces. The new drop off requires that the bus snakes through the southwest of Las Cruces, into downtown, and out the northeastern edge. Passing through without ever feeling soil. Virga. It's odd to slip so calmly through this country, leaving bits and pieces in my path. I have lost four pairs of underwear, two dresses, traded in two shirts, four novels, devoured and discarded a month and some worth of meals and have yet to let my feet sink into the ground. I have yet to fall in love or drown in frustration. There have been no terrible days, zero great tragedies, no stains, no mars, no scars, my clothes wear well, my thoughts move freely, no muck, no blocks, just virga. Is it half as satisfying? Seeing the rainfall but feeling no rain? My sensations are all muddled and no longer trusting of one another, scent and sense making erroneous claims that eye and ear witnesses can't back up. They (who?) say it's about the journey, process, action, movement, stasis be the enemy, but I (me?) get thirsty waiting for the rain to drop. Instead of letting this disappointment seep in and leave that necessary stain to jog my memory, I wait for night where the bare stars come out and force us thinking creatures to ponder the unanswerables as distraction from the things we can. Let's move on.