Meeting and separating. Drifting apart, coming together, again. To complement and detract, distract. Unravel, ravel, weave and lock together into a threnodic pulse. Sometimes I can see them even, farther apart, then suddenly closer.
Power lines with electron messages - strung sagging and pinned to poles, still. Between them, like beads on necklace, red balls to warn the prop planes. The higher wire is taughter, straighter than the bottom wire, which droops down and rises up to the next pole, holding your eye with its movement.
After ten miles, the wires go up and keep going, and there the hills begin. Rising gently from the flat fields on either side of the road - the road cuts through them - steeper now, they cast a shadow that you drive through. The hills rising falling rising and always hiding the fields behind them. Until you can start to fool yourself that the fields aren't there anymore. That climbing that row of hills, to the last blades of grass, you could peer off into nothing.
This is the end of the world.
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