Notes from Mexico: III

I look out the bus window and farms pass by, anomalies of bright green in black earth, where grey, beige and buff are the natural colours. Occasionally, the landscape slows, and a few small shacks pass my window too – always one or two with a sign for “tacos” in various stages of decay. And always, after the few small shacks, I see a spread of plastic bottles scattered over the earth, their assorted blues and greens going white under the glare of the sun. The farms return, broken by patches of scrub and the occasional track leading off to the horizon, where ghosts of mountains lie in wait.

Sometimes I see people walking along those tracks, and sometimes, they walk towards the main road, towards my window. But more often, they walk away, towards something or somewhere that my window cannot see.

-muse