In the belly of the valley, soaked orange chins exist.
Where the fruit is born off the hands of the working hard,
As they look up at the sierras barking over the golden skies,
Maybe a bit fogged but still pleasant
as they drip over life.
ii.
Where on the corner of olive, lies al's cafe, a diner with the
Feeling of home.
May find a girl who is a playing with her pancakes, that
Are not too big, Nor burnt, the golden surface lathered with
sticky sweet syrup. Just perfect. Like the waitress
Who handed it to her with a smile, and a little
‘’Morning honey.’’ in imperfect english with
A slight tone of perfect Spanish, almost rolling her ‘’r’’.
Or walking down the streets of
fulton with friends,
As you sing along to the music that
Weaved over each cloud.
There might be a lack of places to go but somehow,
There's always a place to be.
iii.
With family on a walk through woodwork
Park, the sound of cicadas folded into the
Air, the crunches of leaves Under runners' feet.
Might just find me on the bench, making a verse.
‘’Mija, ya los vamos.’’ My mother calls.
The sunset with boiling pink and hues of blues, bulging into the car window,
the smell of fresno’s sweet sun dying down.
Where the night invites hungry dreams, as i lay, drinking up
moonlight. The blistering wind calling out, smacking
Curtains as it goes,
Waiting for the next day.
Goodnight.
--Genesis A., 9th-12th Grade