The Vacant Hills

The Vacant Hills

Too often dream hauls me back

in it's old yellow truck sold

to someone who will fix it

It sat outside the house until

rust became an issue or

the battery failed to spark

Somewhere beneath me are farms

from the distant past with corn

never to poke their giant stalks

toward the sun they love

The land rolls unlike the steep

rock-covered crags over us then

We shoot imaginary antelope

at the park fifty years ago

on a license of special qualities

after we crawled over a mound

that shielded us with high grass

only to Winchester it dead

Then there is the pine tree

when the bark gets pulled

with young hands on the way

to an old school over the hill

behind the rock through sand

that blows down in south winds

The rain could be seen coming

one range after another blocked

by sheets of drenching summer

lighting striking the west side

seen from the redwood deck

on the home left behind

All this disappears and more

as people forced idyllic places

into hatred and discrimination

crating humanity inside law

written from their ancient books

that ends youthful dreams in fear

Barry G. Wick