There Is a Car Burning on the Hill

There is a car burning on the hill.
The hill is steep, and there are no roads to the top.
Yet the car made it up there, and it is on fire.
Thick black smoke is rolling out of the windows,
casting ink washes against tangerine sky.
The windshield wipers flick noisily,
carving deep gorges in the melting glass.
Somebody inside the car is screaming.

The burning car is too hot to get close,
but it hasn't stopped the curious villagers
from climbing up the hill to watch the burn.

They walk in single file, each heavy footfall pressing
a divot into the earth.
Soon, there is a perfect staircase to the top.
Even the frailest man can climb with ease to the burning car.

It's been two days and the car is still burning on the hill,
and somebody inside the car is still screaming.

None of the villagers have ever been this high on the hill,
to peer over the top
to see what lies beyond their modest village.

In the distance, under a sky of heavy black smoke
they see a village made up of burning cars
laid out in a perfect grid.

There is the roar of the flames,
an individual screaming in every cab,
and the rhythmic gouging of melting glass.