Afflicted as I am by a yearning for furrowed earth my auto pilot sometimes points east toward Texas and Oklahoma. Once you cross the Sangre de Cristos the transition from the high desert to the grasslands of eastern New Mexico is so gradual it’s difficult to say just where scrubland becomes open range. East of Springer a well ventilated hip roof and a sprawling farmstead speak of grass fed beef and summer wheat.
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How lucky we are to live in a place where the sky is so broad and ever changing. The rhythm of the clouds in the first shot is a stunning pallet for the homestead. Just lovely.
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