The Hills of My Home

By Niki Esko

Addicted to the surreal in the real.
Pale light finds the veins of air in the green of twilight. This is my favorite time to walk, and so I go.

Sheets of fine gold, corrupt only in the hands of man, grace enemies of the earth.
Below this perfect light lay matted dogs and tattered cardboard signs that read
"I'm not gonna lie to you. I wanna get high. Happy 4th of July." A man waves. Spits at my feet.
His shirt reads "No Fear"
Truth comes rolling, heavier than the fog.
A family barbecues on their front porch. All-American orange freckles assault my passing. A father turns a hot dog link while frowning at his wife. Her back is turned. Children sip brown soda from a Carls Jr. cup and kick dandelions to oblivion. Above, the clouds close in.

Mosquitoes begin to smell of blood. Tumbling hay falls apart against barbed wire. As the sky soars low, so do the turkey vultures and crows. Heat and oily haze dance together as waves above concrete. The hummingbird grows patient; the hum of its wings is but a concerned murmur now. A young black cow stands alone beyond the fence. It faces me. Suddenly, large blue fireworks shoot up from behind the hills. They whistle and whirl, crack, snap, disappear. And still the cow faces me.


A family climbs into their SUV, perhaps to go out for dinner. They are all round in their own right. One, the shape of an egg, helps a plum and pear into the backseat. The driver, a football of a woman, empties receipts and old coupons from her purse onto the corner. There, she has found her keys. Metallic circles shimmer on the ground as they pull away.