On the edge of the ghost town is a dirt trail that leads to a small hill. You can make out a dirty chain link fence through the overgrown weeds to the remains of headstones.
Small fenced in plots of the very old, the far too young, and every age in between. I run my fingers over the smooth marble and feel the presence of Death.
I find an old wooden cross half hidden in the sagebrush. I feel compelled to pick it up and walk among the graves with it raised before me, like a deranged preacher.
Yet I have no sermon, nor a congregation willing to listen.