BY SHANNON KING

There ’ s a certain magic in getting on the road after a long absence , nothing but sun on the empty highway – like suddenly feeling well only to realize just how sick you ’ ve been . I drive past scrub brush pastures where shade trees mark an old homestead , where abandoned stock tanks dot the landscape and wire fencing lies tangled on the ground . A raven perches on a yucca bloom , and a flash of shimmering red catches my eye as a Red

Racer winds across the highway . I follow along the railroad track , then under it , through low water crossings dry three-quarters of the year , and down the Rio Grande as it snakes its way west toward El Paso and Juarez .

Spilling over with lights , traffic and noise , the westward mountains cannot hold these cities in . Panaderias , taquerias and mercados mix with Albertsons and McDonalds . Industrial pockets bleed into universities against a backdrop of