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Friday, February 7, 2020

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








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