Hillsides
Hillsides
Glistening rooftops of tin huts
In the distance,
The shimmer of sunlight
Bouncing off the windows of a car
Slowly winding its way up the hills
Disappearing around the bends
Reappearing on the other side.
The farmer
Walks through his flooded fields
A small stick figure
Knee deep in water
Half naked
Burnt almond in the summer sun.
On the street below:
The father holds tightly
Onto his daughter’s hand
While she struggles
To break free
Her tiny feet in her dusty school shoes,
Rebel,
Kicking up the dust on the road
With every step;
The laborer returns from his day of work
His jute bag frayed at the edges
The head of a hammer sticking out
He squints his eyes against the brightness
Of the setting sun
And keeps his eyes on the road
His shirt grimy, untucked
Softly flutters in the wind;
The school bus turns the corner
Leaning heavily to one side,
And the happy babel of children
Breaks the oppressive air
Of small-town silence,
Their faces are flushed red
The water bottles around their neck
Jiggling up and down
With every bump on the road.
The whole thing is theatrical
Like a play that plays out
Over and over again
And everyday I drag my chair
Close to the stage
And watch.