R/ckets and S/ntries

the red twisting made a light of a storm or pose in the hills, until the right moment, that never seems so right. there's a big political gamble on top of the hills, sucking resource from delight. the hills will repair, in time, a function of astonishment. the aliens plough the fields and thirst with us. it is a trick, a knack of groan and loss and something stretched just so. listeners irritate their fulsome wounds, drive menace into argument, and write to their friends. their friends are broadcast, a taste of something forgotten or forgetable. someday, in the lurch of program and the crisp assault of a bit of poverty, the land will subsume in something direct. this is alien influence. our blue light remains as shift and turn, for the hills are shaped just so. our little vehicles can grasp only so much.