Writing the light: Queen of America by Luis Alberto Urrea

Back at Cabora, before the troubles destroyed everything, Teresita had tussled with the vaqueros like a scrappy boy. The Sonoran sun, in her memory, was buttery yellow and somehow less brittle than the Arizona cauldron of fire that turned the center of the sky dead white at noon. She was skinny under its light, and her shadow was blue as it puddled around her feet. Arizona made her feel angular, a rattling scarecrow made of bones and regrets.