Village Rooftops

The room I stand in is bare, the cold floor made of a composite stone and concrete. The walls are cream colored and a very dim light shines, just barely, from the hallway behind me.
There is an open window in front of me, my hands are touching the cool white painted wooden sill. The single glass pane of the window is attached to the house at one of the vertical edges, opening to the outside like a fragile door. Outside the sky is mostly dark but for the touch of cobalt blue on the horizon, that thin line which shatters the darkness. The beaming moon above is enough to light the night and I can see the thick cluster of old houses with terracotta rooftops that are clustered over the rolling valley. There are a few birds in the air, already chirping before daybreak.

The vision out the window is one snapped up by every tourist that comes to this town.  3, 4, or 5 story houses all squeezed in together, the terracotta rooftop tiles looking like an undulating ocean over the wavy hillsides.
The walls of the buildings below me are old, some have bits of grass and weeds growing from the cracks in their sides and small clumps of dirt that have settled in the rooftop gutters have sprouted little tufts of greenery. 
On the very edge of the massive grouping is a more imposing church, its bright white-washed walls stand in stark contrast to the yellows, pale browns and beige of the terracotta houses, which in spite of their age still stand strong, proudly serving the life which carries on within them.

Chords of laundry lines connect neighbor to neighbor. They sit now empty, vibrating softly in the early morning air.
Planter boxes full of blooming red flowers hang off many narrow balconies or windowsills, there are dozens of satellite dishes protruding from rooftops or attached to wrought iron railings by the windows.
The houses are so close together I cannot see any roads or alleyways on the streets below, just visible are the chimneys and rooftops and the highest few floors of the buildings with their ample but small windows.
The structures are anything but uniform, though they roughly share the same dimensions, each has its own aesthetic, its own simple uniqueness which differentiates it from the ones beside it.  Their only common trait is the warm-hued terracotta roof, the sense of an ancient, but living structure.

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 King's Tent

There is a barren valley of soft dry earth. Surrounding the flat land are short jagged hillsides covered in dry yellow grass. The sun is out, undisturbed by a single cloud. The light is extremely bright, reflecting off the hillsides with tremendous force and sending up wavering transparent waves from the hot ground. The hillsides are undisturbed by man, not a house or a planted tree rest on its surface. In the valley, a narrow blue river tumbles by, finding its way over small rocks and large boulders.
The singular structure on the flat valley floor is a simple rectangular tent. The temporary structure is 200 feet long and twenty feet wide. The walls, made from a mixture of pale linen and canvas are twenty feet high and meet at a point in the center of the tent, creating a long peak that stretches the length of the tent. The smaller sides of the tent have two open spaces in the shape of an over-sized door. A cool breeze runs between the two ends.
Inside the tent is the warm yellow light of the diffused sun, it is calm and quiet within. Cut from the fabric on the long sides are square holes for windows, there are fifteen on each side of the long structure. The windows are wide open to the elements outside. Along both long walls is a single row of wooden chairs that face each other. The arrangement leaves plenty of room in the center, creating a wide aisle of fine dirt that has been covered in maroon rugs with intricate patterns of blue and yellow.
In the chairs are women and men, most of them under thirty, their skin taut and pale. The women are wearing dresses made of silk and satin. Their skirts are fluffy and their necklines dip deep, revealing cleavage and bare soft necks that are caressed in fallen curls. The men among them wear tailored pants in pale patterns and small form-fitting vests and flowing white shirts with ruffled collars and cuffs.
One third of the way down from the front entrance, a king of the people sits in the simple wooden chair. He is built like a large bear. He is wide and tall and is formidable in his thick dark cloak made of fur and velvet. He sits looking forward and stoic, his left hand is on his knee, the other hand is on the armrest. A young woman to his left repeatedly nudges her long Semitic nose into his chest.
In the distance, by the river, the sound of townspeople creates a murmur. There are the sounds of excited women and men and screeching young children. Only their voices reveal their location. They shout their jeers and insults at no one in particular.

The Hills

The early morning air is crystal clear. Overhead the sky is stretched smooth, a cloudless robin’s egg blue. Underfoot the earth is a patchwork of dirt and wild grass; in some places it is soft and springy like short green shag carpet, in other places it is long and brittle like tufts of wily yellow hair. Little wild flowers poke up here and there; dainty white blossoms no bigger than a pinky finger nail speckle the green grass, tall gangly sunflowers thrive near the yellow grass and occasionally jut from patches of parched dust. With sunny yellow petals and centers the color of freshly ground coffee, they flaunt their resilience and the freedom it grants them by growing almost anywhere, even among the clusters of slate boulders that build the hillside.
Upon the hills crest, near the chaotic configurations of stones, a ram grazes on the tender blades of green that have managed to thrust up among the rocks. Its hair hangs like a silver drape obscuring its short stout legs. With horns spiraling low and near its head, everything about its physique seems to pull it closer to the earth.
Brief valleys separate this hill from its siblings. The colors of these mammoth mounds leap forth with startling vividness. The clay top soil of one is a deep warm red, almost too ruddy to be believable. Its surface is littered with the charred remains of burnt oaks and chaparral. They stand out like black runes etched upon the red background. It is almost as if they could be read, their shapes and configurations seem wrought with a hidden meaning which seeks to burst forth. The right eyes could divine their secret message.
Similarly, another hill, mostly swathed in the green of grass, is ornamented by winding dirt paths and mounds. At a glance these seem to be Neolithic glyphs, painstakingly carved out upon the hills face. A second look suggest that they are but roads, and yet a third will seem to affirm that they are yet both, as if roads and the signs of common human habitation have been carefully traced directly on top of something older, deeper, and subtler. They form shapes riddled with mythological richness.
The noises of small birds can be heard coming from the underbrush; the rustle of leaves as a limb bows ever so slightly under the small feathered body that has just lighted upon it, an almost insect like trilling punctuated by a chirp. Now and then they can be glimpsed, a blur of movement that leaves an empty branch quivering, or a yellow and black head, slightly cocked so that beady eyes may glisten inquisitively from behind a thicket of waxy green leaves.
Butterflies disturb the stillness of the air with the gentle flittering of paper thin wings. As a population, they are predominately bluebell blue, but occasionally a painted lady passes through, orange wings palpitating through the ethers, looking for all the world like a beating heart floating adrift in an invisible sea. Those of the blue variety congregate sociably upon the clusters of wild flowers. A well trained ear might be able make out the whispering of their wings and glean some significance. Their dance through the sky, their configurations upon the flora may be read like the tea leaves at the bottom of a bone china cup. The context of their message shifts with each dying moment, so that in one breath it is profound and in the next it is vulgar.