Nostalgia, or the Phantom on the High Plains
Leaning against the weathered post at the end of the veranda, he stared out past the mesquite into the gloaming, cicada song cutting the stillness of the desert air. As his eyes adjusted to the growing darkness, he saw, as if gliding on the auster, the eidola of a young woman passing along the edge of the border fence, the waning vermillion glowing through her smoky translucence. Stepping off the porch, his gaze traced her path behind the thicket of sagebrush nearest the Hampshire gate. A tear rolled down his rough cheek as she silently evanesced into the evening gloom.