Each deportation cuts a channel through our community, like water carving through unprotected soil.

Started about a mile from here as the crow flies and I was fortunate there was a ridge and a river between me and it. Ready, set, go.

Think about the old days. Town picnics in the park. Fourth of July parades. Christmas lights on every house. People used to care.

I flip over another bale. And there it is—a rattlesnake, coiled and unmoving.

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But what happens when the stories we tell ourselves are no longer enough?

No one knew who had built it or why. Now it would be the focal point of their desperate attempt to change their fortunes.