Diffused light fell onto rusting hills. Clumps of tin formed rows to hold in small streams carving wrinkles in the land. The discards ran through wrinkles until caught or clogged. Pigs ran the length of the little streams, looking for recyclables to fill their bellies. Women produced white streaks of soap suds across the ground as, in unison, the entire population kneaded dirt from their clothes. Bare hills emerged, climbed higher than the clumped tin. A layer of plastic, paper & discards blotted the smooth hill. amidst one such blot a small boy leaned over to add to the discard. There was no pretense of privacy or location. He looked up & I held my breath in my chest. We weaved down through creaks then moved along the river. Smells tempted my body to contribute to the smell. Bright colors sat over rusting tin & land like band aides. Children formed small choirs & chanted in unison, “How are you?” threatening to dislodge something inside me. Their eyes & faces betrayed their surroundings, bright like the patterned material hanging from lines that criss crossed narrow streams. Men with set jaws who’s necks acted as pivots, moved as we passed, as if we were an unwelcome breeze. We thought the skies would produce tears but a man more experienced than us assured us no tears would fall for this place. And so it was, constant clouds but no tears to clean land or clear conscious.
