The Yellow Hills

The six lane highway is sandwiched between two hillsides whose peaks angle away from each other, creating the illusion that I am driving through a long bowl with only two sides.  The earth angles smoothly upwards, symmetrically but in opposite directions towards the peaks one hundred feet high.  The hills seem perfectly aligned, cut from the earth for this long highway that takes no turns or deviations.  It is a straight line to the mountains, hidden now by angry clouds.  And though man has tried for symmetry, nature has taken over once again, bringing chaos into the optimistic order of carefully designed things. 

The hills are blooming brightly with wild mustard plants that reach five feet in the air.  They wave in the wind, bending easily on their thin stalks. The yellow blossoms are like an electric lamp blaring loudly into the midday sky.  They cover the hills in a dense world of vibrating yellow, painting a nearly perfect blanket of uniform color, a pattern changing with each new breathy gust.  Moving not in unison, but in a myriad of shapes and directions that change continuously, rapidly, leaving not a moment for reflection.

Ahead is a gray sky. It is dark and verging towards black, just one step from madness. Huge puffs of water filled clouds hang overhead, threatening with their very color.  Towards the right, to the horizon in the east, the clouds are bubbly and pale gray. I can see one small patch of blue fighting through a thick blanket, another color adding to the living palette.

On the right side of the highway, at the base of the hillside, are the plastic orange cones and metal road signs of imminent construction, though not a soul in a hardhat walks beyond the temporary cement barricade that separates the road from the construction zone. Piles of stacked lumber lay waiting, sitting beside metal bound packets of rebar and thin poles, themselves wrapped in sheets of thick plastic wrapping.  Small peaks of sand and dirt wait for use below blue plastic tarps, the edges flapping just slightly in the wind

I stare out though the slightly dirty windshield. The contrasting colors of the world losing no brilliance despite the thin gauze of accumulated dust and orange splattered innards of unfortunate bugs.  I avoid turning my head, but through peripheral vision I see the red, black and white of passing cars beside the windows. 

The Dark Road

A long journey on a dark road. Over my shoulder is the strap of a small cloth sack, holding cranberries and almonds. My chest is covered in a blue wool coat that reaches towards my feet and wrists. It is a long road, curving over the earth like a serpent, winding past deserts and over mountains and into valleys. It is a long road, a long journey and it continues with another step. One tiny step on the gravelly road mixed with dirt and dust. The earth crunches beneath my weight, each step grinding rock to sand. Night has fallen and the sky is metallic silver and black. There are no individual clouds, they have merged together, forming a giant blanket of moisture, a thick sheen of other-worldly color and implication.

I look to the sky, searching for something; for a shape in the heavens, a word to appear in the silvery darkness. I squint, my chin raised, looking, looking.

The journey is long, walked step by step, each one as important as the next, for the future can come only after the present has been walked. They are tiny little steps on an earthen road with nebulous edges that fade into fields of grass. The path is either forgotten and clear as the night time sky. The past is mine alone. Mine in this valley below a metallic sky. These little pointed black leather shoes carry me onwards, my only protection from the sleeping jagged pebbles.

It is a long journey on a dark road. The sky is metallic silver and black and a raven flies overhead. His wings are spread wide and full, adding another shadow of dark to the sky. He swoops in alone, circling the valley in wide circles, soaring on a cold wind that comes from a forgotten dead sun.

Surrounding me on all sides are steep barren mountains. They surround the valley like the edges of a high bowl. I walk slowly, taking little steps with my leather shoes. A raven flies overhead, ringing a bell. The sound moves through me, riding my veins like a thousand tiny ships.

It is a long journey on a dark road. The sky is metallic silver and black and a raven flies overhead, ringing a bell. The blanket of clouds begins to pulse, responding to the waves of sound. A wind begins to sweep over the mountain sides and my body shudders in the wind. I am the blend of mountain, of wind, of cloud, of blood; held together by the bell, its sound running through me like dark angels flying into the metallic night.

The Gifts of Clouds

Thunderous rain has begun to spill from deep red clouds. They gather like over-stuffed pillows, releasing their unending desire at a torrential pace. The fairylands of the lower clouds have been decimated, the rainbows that hide during the day have fled for brighter skies in the north. The little people have drowned, the ones that cover themselves in blue markings, like permanent childhood etches upon their pale white flesh. Their floating bodies have added layers of blue texture in the rising waters. Lifeless, but moving, they are one with the element they worship above all others. Towards the outer edges of the world, there are murmurings and questions posed to the clouds that gather and produce each day, then vanish as the light begins to fade. The questions are never revealed to a listening ear, there will never be an audible answer. They do as they wish, answering to none. Even the winds remain silenced by the force of their watery pulses. There are some who sit in treetops, in the upper branches of towering eucalyptuses. The long silvery leaves are fragrant in the elemental mix of water and air.
Naked and pierced, a slender girl holds onto the thickest branch with her strong thighs. Her legs drawn tightly around the smooth limb that seems to return her affection. Her hands are free, they sway, moving without rhythm to the constant tap of raindrops. Her petite head, covered in long tendrils of wet brown hair is turned up to meet the rain with an open mouth. Small beads roll down her pink tongue, leaving miniscule trails of their descent. Small pools have collected in the space of her closed eyes and each new addition sends a quiver from her heart to her toes. Raindrops fall upon her by the hundreds and she feels each one. Each, like a unique kiss sent by one with no mouth.
A kiss lands on her small toe, another on her right breast, another on her cheek. They land en masse, they land as one. Like a sponge for their attention, she keeps herself open to their language. Each ting a small communication, touched by the roaring clouds above. The forest of eucalyptus is massive and dark. There are other girls like her, somewhere within the vast stretch of fragrant forest, but the night is dark and her eyes are closed to all except the tiny spheres of water. With each taste that finds itself in her mouth, she feels a new emotion. Like lightning mixed with sweetness. Like rage filtered through a soft touch, like candy dipped in the excited delight of flesh on flesh. Her thighs, wrapped tightly around the smooth branch shudder with each arriving drop.