This morning the clean up crew is roosting in a tall dead tree across the bridge that gets you over Percha Creek into Hillsboro, New Mexico. This tree is dead as their breakfast and gives the buzzards a good place to open their wings and catch the sun’s heat, talk about yesterday’s trips over hillsides, tell grisly buzzard jokes. Buzzards are a part of western living. In the evening, before the sun goes down, you watch them gliding on updrafts of wind off the hillsides, not in a hurry, conserving energy. This morning they look big and healthy. Buzzards, for those who haven’t been paying attention, share many things in common with the Hillsboro residents. Even if you don’t see them, there are residents in coveralls sitting in these tree branches too, waiting patiently for the next town person to move up to the graveyard on the nearby hill. In a place like Hillsboro, the pickings are small and nothing goes to waste. Anything you get your hands on here is worth something to somebody.  
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