When the counter is full at the Range in Bernalillo, I’m glad I live in a place where I can point the truck north on old 66 to Abuelita’s or Twisters, near the route of Coronado and homes of Puebloans who were already there, then east toward Placitas where Las Huertas Creek runs from a Sandia mountain canyon to the Rio Grande and close to that confluence at home consume my carry-out combination plate with green and sleep it off in a living room chair facing piñon-juniper foothills so quiet the croaking of sandhill cranes overhead wakes from me from an endorphin-ensured nap, satisfied by enchiladas-tacos-beans-and-rice as the birds flying down from Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana and Idaho circle upward, seeking a thermal for the flight south to Bosque del Apache for feasts on fields of winter grain.

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