at sixteen fifty a voice
arrives through storms
through a din of echoing static
like a friend calling
through a tin-can and
string phone with
line pulled taut in the wind
stretched across fences

As the distance grows,
breaths, individual, become
harder to trace. The
pinging echo of radar
in the situation room
combines with tinnitus,
the vital details of the
next few days fall
lost to the high frequency
whine from windshield
wipers peeling raindrops
from the screen
desperate to keep up
with the film of water
forming over vision.
more space
and more time
until the line breaks
and recoils through
the air above the
yard in graceful
arcs that land on the ground
white on green
static in the rain
dead air
out of touch

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