A sudden surge on the line, perturbation of the grid, all conversations suspended, occluded. Pungent stench. The fibers are fried. No one’s listening anymore, no one’s making a move to communicate. Dark skies, amber clouds on the edge of the field, touching the ground. A wreath was placed on the burning dirt. Someone dug a ditch to contain the fire. Pouring ice into the hole, flooding the ground with tears. Ineffective, repetitive. A sudden surge ran along the wires, towers melting. It’s not snowing here anymore, it’s not raining, either. You can sit by the shattered maple and weep, but the fog will cover you and the stench of burning words will clog your nostrils, tear at your throat, pull the veins down, the skin apart. There’s nothing left, but the murmur of trees leaving.
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Andrea Moorhead
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