There is loneliness here.
Excruciating and beautiful loneliness.
Perhaps my footsteps in the sands of Howard County, Texas mimic those left by Steinheimer in the snows of Blanca, Colorado a generation ago.
And, longer ago still, Clegg at the end of track on a brilliant fall day in Jaroso.
They cultivated this moment; planted the seeds of lights and shadows in far away and lonely places; of old Fox trucks rusting away on ancient rail, kept company in their forlornness by a home-built caboose whose own path towards dereliction was well underway and whose usefulness had reached the proverbial end-of-track. Cupola windows vacant of glass, the winter winds whistled through as a ghost might mourn his own mortality, the low afternoon sun highlighting the end and leaving the flank in cold, stark shadow.
Between the snow on Blanca Peak and the sagebrush plateau of the San Luis Valley, not a soul is seen.
Steinheimer’s breath evaporated into the thin cold air.
It was warm and sunny when Beebe and Clegg roamed around Jaroso on a beautiful day. Puffy white clouds added texture and definition to a blue sky, and snow was high up on the Sangre de Cristos. The tops of the rabbitbrush were sporting their characteristic yellow flowers, and the autumn sun was well on its way to the southern hemisphere, laying long shadows upon the ground. Standing in a shadow cast by a grounded boxcar, Charles composed a classic---
Of sheep grazing among the sage and rabbitbrush, line poles now void of lines, a plateau that stretched all the way to the Sangre de Cristos, and light iron spiked down on top of crossties that never knew the creosoting process. The old wooden car bolster and ties laid down at the end of the iron mark the finality of things---
The beginning was elsewhere---
But the end was here.
Neither image knew locomotion; no plume of smoke; no flailing rods and valve gear.
Only the stillness of a railroad dying upon a vast plain.
Their images spoke volumes.
They spoke of lonely places far away---
And lonely places within oneself.
A soul to roam around in and search for things.
There are no sheep here, and no mountains. The winds of the South Plains have smoothed the furrows of last year’s cotton.
It is shadows that stretch desperately towards a perfect horizon, coming so very close---
To what?
Yet never to reach it.
Two nomads stand in the evening warmth and let the setting sun cast shadows upon the sands.
One would chat.
One would listen.
One would stay the night and visit the stars---
Know the snows of another winter---
The storms that rage in spring---
And stifle under the heat of another summer.
The other would turn towards the setting sun---
And walk away.
*
grain by tiny grain
it is the winds that doom us
smoothing furrows
erasing footprints
carrying them to oblivion
or other places
an impermanence
the color of shadows
subdued by time
to vanish in the late hours
and never know the horizon
to die as it lived
a lonely dreamer
a wanderer
to where and back again?
---RAM
Rick Malo©2026
Of unknown origins, an old wooden camp/cook/outfit car slowly deteriorates upon the red sands of Howard County, Texas north of Big Spring.
January 1st, 2026.
Thank you!