here, the hills greet the sky in a mirror; mirages on the hood of a lone silver van—a stop is necessary for tired eyes and empty minds.
we have had our fair share of untaxed coastline peaches, soaked with brine and crystalline salt particles, sickly sweet like trumpet vine nectar.
we have lingered in the valley of the sun, chewing sourgrass like contemplative philosophers beneath fermenting grape vines, passing our ignorance of private property signs off as a slip of illiteracy.
our clothes have succumbed to the constant batter of warm updrafts; off they go like white flags; botticellis are repainted in our tanned likenesses, and we have become santa lucia’s extra set of eyes.
let the moon rise over hills of raw gold and over prospect and a promise of safety, as fleeting as the steam over daybreak waters.