In the badlands of Soledad Mesa, where the sun hammered the earth into cracked porcelain and the wind carried the screams of lost travelers, there raced a roadrunner that ran backward in time .
The Navajo called it Chidí Biligáana , the Ghost-Runner. Its feathers were bleached bone-white, its eyes two polished obsidian stones that reflected not the present, but what you should have seen coming . Unlike its earthly cousins, this roadrunner left no tracks—only after-images that lingered seconds too long in the shimmering heat.
Miners told stories:
— A prospector saw it sprint past and suddenly stood holding his own skeleton’s hand
— A stagecoach driver swore it crossed his path moments before the landslide hit
— Children who chased it returned with their shadows running ahead of them
Old Man Reyes, the blind saloon keeper, kept a jar of silver dust on his counter labeled "Roadrunner Bait." "Sprinkle this where your regrets fester," he’d say, "and maybe it’ll outrun ‘em for you."
Then came the day the railroad men dynamited the sacred mesa. As the dust cleared, Chidí Biligáanna appeared atop the rubble—not running, but un-running , its movements reversing as it dissolved the explosion second by second. The workers watched in horror as their dynamite plugs slithered back into boxes, their hammers undoing each nail.
By sundown, six men had vanished. The remaining crew found their pockets full of silver sand that screamed when thrown.
Now when the Santa Fe winds howl through Soledad Mesa, you don’t look at the roadrunner—you look where its shadow should be. Because if you see it flicker the wrong way that means you’re already part of what it’s trying to outrun.