Daniel Medina lives in the City of Los Angeles, California.
Iron Mountain breaches the puffing combustion, chiseling electricity out of the sky. Below, groves of chunky Oak burn in conspiracy. Struck by futility, a menagerie of quails flies circles in ash until melting to paste. Crashing hooves spring the Bighorn ewe to the mountain highway’s crumbling crest. It halts, listing clumsily on the vanishing shoulder. Plastic road reflectors weep across double yellow lines, their adhesive liquefying in the storm. The road, cricking in flames, tilts past the angle of repose. The ewe falls into a writhing sky, flocking through smoke, tickled by winking plastic as it’s sluiced from the mountainside.