Henry Shukman, 6 July 2006
Behind the big stores the desert is hoary. Beneath the snow it will be the colour of night. The trailer homes, shut up, no lights on, bed cold under roofs the somnolent white of the sky.
Our airport shuttle is dark and trembles. Every car sheds its own aurora. At the intersection the red goes deep as midnight. To the wipers’ slow applause we turn