WHEN I LAY DOWN TO STAY

It will be written.

To Day.

I am writing this to you. We have 24 hours to kill. I didn't make up the rules; I just abide by them, so here goes.

I buried an armadillo at about 9 AM under a pile of rocks, a rugged pyramid to honor its passing. I had traded my horse at dawn for a beaten-down pick-up truck on sagging springs since nothing was left for me here, so adios. No job, no girl, and a broken-down cowboy who only knows how to head into the sunset. I fled—my saddle is behind the shed if you need it for your heritage museum.

I buried that armadillo on my way out of Amarillo. I did that because it seemed like the right thing to do. I rolled a cigarette and let the dry heat bake me a bit, and then I began. It was too arid to sweat. My lungs seized up a bit. I probably should have that looked at.

The animal did not look hurt, just dead, as if its heart gave out, a final drum beat on a barren stretch of asphalt between where it had been and where it needed to go. I assume it had lost everything it had ever loved and decided this was as good a place as any to lay down and stay. I'm unsure if the armadillo factored me into the equation, blood brothers crossing paths. I was happy to do my part.

So, to this day, I am turning the page in this old cowboy's saga. A few hours remain before 24, and in the rearview, I fade.

My watch now says 735 PM, and I am heading south to Mexico.

To find a soft-hearted senorita to take me in.

To build me a pyramid.

When I decide to lay down and stay.

To Morrow, or another day, it will be written.