In-: Searching For- Sienna West

I hiked to a mesa where the wind doesn’t sound like wind. It sounds like a harmonica playing two notes off-key. I closed my eyes. For a second, I felt her. Sienna West.

“Sienna West,” I told him.

She is in the dust on your boots. She is in the last sip of lukewarm coffee. She is in the West that exists only in the rearview mirror—fading, gorgeous, and gone before you can name her. Searching for- sienna west in-

Not a crayon. Not a hex code.

I never found a sign that said Sienna West, Population: 1 . I never found a woman in a diner with that name. I hiked to a mesa where the wind doesn’t sound like wind

By noon, the raw earth catches fire. The monoliths cast shadows like spilled ink. This is burnt sienna —the color of rust, of old trucks, of the skin on a cowboy’s neck. For a second, I felt her