A thousand feet from the border fence. A thousand chorus frogs sing in Boundary Creek. The air is cool, a moist tang of sulphur from the spring.
A bright planet settles toward the mountains in the west. Jupiter, we guess, and we watch Orion follow it with his dog. The moon is bright: it washes out all but the hundred brightest stars.
A thousand feet from the border fence. We walk the road’s wide and moonlit shoulder. The Raven’s hand finds mine. “I knew it was a good run,” I tell her, “when the frogs in Pinole Creek didn’t stop singing as I ran past. I felt like I was part of the night. I felt like I belonged there.”
Headlights come around a hill from the south. A Border Patrol truck, and it hesitates long as it reaches the pavement. We pass the frogs, still singing. The truck idles at the corner. I feel its driver’s eyes on me, but after a long moment it turns the other way and parks in front of the store.
We keep walking, ten minutes or so until the bark of a wary dog comes to us from a darkened house ahead. No use vexing a dog used to barking at people passing on foot, we decide, and turn around.
Another Border Patrol truck emerges from the darkness, turns toward us. Its headlights sweep us long and lingering, deliberate. It is a harsh light. It bleaches away the nuances of The Raven’s Mexican ancestry, it would seem. Both of us as pale in the light as gringo ghosts, we keep our scowls hidden. One of us has ancestors in England and France, the other in Spain and Mexico. Walls rise at times between us but we tear them down as fast as possible.
The frogs sing as we pass again.
A nice piece of writing Chris. It brings the reader to both your place and mind-set. Thanks.
Bill:www.wildramblings.com
Much enjoyed this post!