The unintentional sacredness of things

In the shadow of the craggy cross, a pair of long-neck beer bottles nestle together in the shade, like rabbits waiting out the noonday heat.

A fan belt circles the cross’s arms, a sharp-edged red reflector tucked into one end. Two pieces of broken mirror and a flat, chalky rock are carefully balanced on top of the arms. A crack in the belt will hang on for one more summer, maybe two, before it breaks through and the whole thing collapses.

Oxidized barbed wire is z-ed at the intersection of arms and upright, where two Carta Blanca caps are tacked, their red color slowly fading under the western sun.

A single railroad spike on the top of the cross shudders as the eastbound Union Pacific storms past, blessing the sacred aggregate of things left behind.

US 87
Presidio County, Texas