I awaken to the loud sounds of woodpeckers pecking and birds chirping, I see that is not yet light out. I continue to stay still in the dark until it fades away. The dump truck approaches, and I know that it is time to get up. The sky is blue, only a few clouds scatter it. The faded out pavement and the dewy grass that surrounds it are still damp from the previous night of downpour. I walk down the poorly paved road, stripped and split by cracks that are filled with weeds and leaves from the surrounding oak trees. I pass the old pond at our neighbor’s house; the one with the even older turtle. On my left I see the barn that we so proudly own, but neglect to do anything with. It smells of mildew and lingering rats.

Near the barn there stands a gigantic oak tree with old remains of what once was a swing. In the corner of the open field slumps a willow tree that is home to many animals, both dangerous and innocent. A few graves lie next to the hunched tree that hold the past of what once were our loyal chickens that produced fresh eggs. In the center of the field lies a large hedge filled with blackberries and quail. Surrounding it is a swampy area that is covered in reeds and, strangely, pockets of mint. A circle of dirt is easily tracked around the edges of the field. It has been run over many times by bikes.

The day continues and the chirping grows louder and more frequent as a neighbor’s pack of doves fly over the house and onto the giant tree in the field. They stay there for hours, sometimes switching between different trees in and around the field. When you look closely at the pack of doves you can easily see that they are not the mourning doves we see in nature, as they are lacking a dark patch on the back of their necks.

As the light begins to dim, I find myself walking up the long, steep slope of our driveway and even farther past the unused chicken coop towards the very top of the hillside, all the while carefully dodging the poison oak. The black and white dogs race ahead of me, bounding up the hill, barking as they go. I approach the top of the hill and hear loud noises in the distance; sounds of motorcycles and old rickety tractors. I spot the tall wispy towers of smoke that spout from extravagant fireplaces; they string all the way down our road. I can even spot the ocean from miles and miles away.

I watch the sun set over the glistening ocean surface. The light leaves  in yellows, oranges, pinks, and finally reds until there is the dim light of dusk. I use these final minutes to look over the overgrown hill and vast, open field. I look across the way to the opposite side of the hill to see the looming forest that bows down over the road and acts like a barrier between the different slopes.

I walk back down the hill towards my house watching my step for loose dirt. As I slide into bed, I notice the loud sounds of crickets clicking and frogs croaking.