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Between homes, on telephone wires strung out like tight ropes or the strings of a violin, birds perch, acrobatic. They balance like clothes pegs, or men on lunch from building a skyscraper; they wait in line, bunched up like morse code or binary, ones and pairs of ones (feathered elevens), separated by gaps and stops, zero-spaces. Through the high-wires, speakers and receivers feed the electricity, in the breaths, the pauses, the crackle. The lines rule the sky like an exercise book, trace the margins onto paper-plain clouds; when they cross, they make kites and cubes, held up by overlapping pairs of smoothed trees. Maybe the birds can feel the conversations through their claws, the vibrations of distant lovers’ whispers, the family check-ins, the check-ups with friends. Maybe they can feel these voices, the pulse, an overload about to happen along this carless three lane highway. |
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CONVERSATION
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