Not many cars pass through here, it's fairly quiet, quaint, but not quite desolate, even if the three trees chopped in the last six years indicate a passing of life, much like a car passes through here; it only stops for signs, thought provoking like a brick bound by cement punished by relentless winds and drowning rains, pained by suffocating heat and soothed with frost - to that extent is all that's here, a myth of snow, recited when the rain clears the horizon, an image of mountains touched up by snow, pasted on HOLLYWOOD, but just out of reach for the non-wandering eye; the eyes wander when planes use the houses as a reference, a guide to land where all dreams fabricate - a pocket of reality, a single lent often lost where things are hidden, like the cars that pass by the street, the faces behind the wheel, the eyes searching for a visual on
where to stop and find the next intersection.