Las Vegas from the Backseat of a Lyft
Mountains north of the city are snow capped, three feet deep. A woman pulls a cart in the shadow of a billboard. Dressed in a light coat, wrapped in a blanket. Lugs trash bags, clothing. Two kids trek behind her. Sneakers. No gloves. The billboard offers salvation and legal aid. Like every billboard across this city. Gas stations. Bars. A taqueria. Drive-thru pawn shops. Vacant lots. Black birds perch on power lines. Hawks. Grackles. A guy with a cardboard sign sits on the curb at a light. He’s asking for money. Ash funnels east from Pacific fires, hovers like a cloud above fenced-in vacant lots dotted with sagebrush and Western red bud, imported palm trees and iron fabricated into cacti and coyotes. Rain flooded downtown streets in August. A rare rain that did nothing to raise water levels in man-made Lake Mead. This is what they mean by change, the natural world adapting in anger.