Her heels striking the terrazzo tiles sounded like explosions deep in the seam between two mountains.
As the storm clouds moved in, a shadow spread over one of the Davis Mountains and onto the plain like a drop of black ink in a dish of water.
From the airplane, the Davis Mountains looked like brown bacteria erupting in a dirty yellow solution.
I traced with my index finger the foot trails across the mountain’s southern face from a couple of miles away. Most of them began and ended abruptly like scars on a face years after it had been slashed in a knife attack.
Birds of Bad Omen 