Turkeys

I drive by a vineyard with the sun rising through the grapevines, with its ray sparkling off the brand new $2 million homes on the right. The houses don't catch my attention as much as the wild turkeys. I often see them on top of the hill, in no particular hurry, strutting carefree, probably looking for leftover grapes filled with sweet nectar.
I am overcome with peace while I sit at an intersection, waiting for the right turn arrow to turn green. I don't know if others see them since their movements are subtle and they blend in almost perfectly.
Many things are beautiful. I take that back. EVERYTHING is beautiful. We just have to look a little closer.

The Hills

Hundreds of rolling hills reside in Southern Livermore.
They remind me of huge kings' tombs of Korea.
Only the cows and the large transformers occupy the land.
Morning fog trapped in between them makes everything look mythical, as they extend for miles into the mountains.
When it is clear, I can see the lake peeking between the hills.
It looks like a mirage, but I know it's real, because I am going to run there someday, watching the ripples the fish make at dusk.
I have driven by them thousands of times, yet they calm me as I bend around the sharp corners of highway 84.
New houses pop up everywhere every day. I hope they leave the hills alone.