The wind is always blowing here. It rushes down out of the canyon to the east like a cavalcade of rhinoceroses. The cyclists struggle against it the pedestrians have to lean into it the motorists spend two dollars and ninety cents extra each time they gas up to compensate for it. The trees on the eastern edge of the cemetery are bowed- to the west- and their leaves donβt fall theyβre ejected like screaming pilots from flaming cockpits at wonky angles until they crash into the grave markers below them. And the headstones are all weathered prematurely, names and dates and histories erased
while below, wrinkled shells dressed in sunday suits sit in metal boxes pretending that some shred of them will last forever.