Hours

Rolling mustard hills flow by as the vehicle rapidly shifts in position, vying for a open spot on the concrete dance floor. Rows of decayed trees stretch out to the hills, waiting for the rain to reach them. The band of travelers halts their trek near an arid suburbia. The town known as Pea Soup is surrounded by dusty fast food stops and wailing cars. A mere speck on the sea of their travel. Miles and miles of yellow grain border the sides of the highway. The faint smell of livestock is drowned out by the ever welcome air conditioner. High in the sky, the sun casts shadows on the dancers below, as their movements stop and shudder. The soothing lull of the piano notes grants its passengers a momentary reprieve from the world of light. An aura of serenity echoes as they journey across the earth.

A plot of green land breaks through the waves of yellow grain. Breaths of fresh air float through an open window. To gather oneself in this moment in time. Looking out over the plains, into the wild blue yonder. A behemoth logging truck creates a new shadow in place of the direct glare of the sun. But even as they move out of the dark gaze of the colossal beast, there is no warmth. A fire without heat. The mountains watch over us with tired eyes as the dance picks up its pace again. Their viridescent color lies dormant beneath the mounds of dirt. Where has the rain has gone, they mutter, praying for a day without light.