Outside, four floating power lines - the long black hairs of an electric titan; four gigantic tentacles in water, live and flowing from some steely man-of-war - sag high, usurping Sunday's rococo sky. Nothing's wrong - metallic gossamers in heavy transit flung from pole to pole by some presumptuous hand I can't infer. Ignoring playful winds that loose fall trees to dance and cheer, these cords lie still and dumb. They know full well that dancing never lit the room, or forced the frost-burn to succumb. I've scanned these steel lines all my life. I've laughed at those who echo Thoreau, not with quill or pen, but with I.B.M. Nothing's wrong here. Four wires snake down the road toward the landfill. |