We Are What We Eat
From my bedroom window I can hear the sounds of traffic streaming by on Interstate 25, carrying folk around the last corner down from the pass through the Sangre de Christo foothills at Glorieta and the Pecos River, toward Santa Fe, New Mexico. They descend the mountain toward their jobs or they come down to vacation from points north, crossing a gateway where populations and commerce of the great Midwestern plains pass into a strange and almost alien country of the southwest, where civilization appears to change in some subtle manner, just like the landscape.
