Hills

Grandpa's house sat on top of a hill,
which poured into a valley,
which flowed out into more hills.
Chaotic terrain.
Up and down the same street:
Ranch houses with yellow lawns.
Up and down, up and down
Then spit out into the Oakland hills.
Never green, too dry.
Smoke rolls off the cigarette in Grandpa's hand,
dangling from his fingertips.
He coughs, then spits out the window.
The smell of cigarette smoke is a comfort
when we pass the cattle farms and trout hatcheries
that dot the miles of yellow hills.
We wind back and forth, up and down
in Grandpa's blue Chevy pickup,
I stick my arm out the window
and I am certain
there is no where else to be.