The wind blew across a landscape that had seen the touch of industrial man's hand. Before me was what used to be a town. Once, people had paused here in their travels, and ranchers and farmers had bought and sold. People had been here. Had been. The wheels on the cars had stopped turning without fuel, and the neon signs on the buildings were dark without electricity to light them. Seventy five years of nothing had taken its toll; the entropy of time would not be denied. It was quiet here, just as quiet as the countryside. The wind blew, but very little creaked, because if something had been hung with care, it was now lying on the ground. The wind whistled its timeless tune through streets vacant of people.
One of the burros pulling my photography cart bobbed its head as I held its harness. "Yeah, Bluebell, I'm going." As I walked forward, the sound of the cart and the glass plates it carried bounced from building to building. I would be scrounging these buildings for more glass, cleaning it and cutting it to be used to make photographic pictures, like had first been done over 200 years before.
