A cold wind blows the desert this morning.
Little red dust devil’s playing and weaving through the corpses of once working machines; pipes and wires jutting out of the ground like ribs, like tendons.
The Sun rises, which is always a good sign. It’s red light bathing the ground, red on red. Turning the rusted metal to entrails once again. The light slowly creeps along the ground, inch by inch. A little red farm. A little red house. And eventually a little red town. Little red bluffs and little red hills make way for the mountains their caps pink in the morning light. But still, the only noises are those of the wind, your horses, and the creak and rustle of clothes and harnesses.
A sign reads, “Welcome to Obed”.