What the Salt Flats Remember

The flats hold everything in white. Old tire tracks dried to scripture, the ghost of a race no one finished.

A woman stood here once at dusk and watched the mountains eat the light— she drove away but left her shadow, pressed flat into the mineral crust.

Rain comes once a decade, thin and apologetic, pulling the buried years to the surface: brine, iron, the chemical signature of patience.

What we abandon doesn't vanish. It lies down in the salt and waits, growing more itself with every dry season, until the ground gives it back— harder, paler, beyond all recognition.