Bats! No trail day. Rain on thin roof, no attic. The new not driving me, staying put, or placed, possibly for strategic reasons no longer a priority as determined not by the MIC, or by President Drone.
Ncoded and decoded pulses of signals processed determines approximately everything. Place is everything. I’m am here, now. The rain hits the thin roof in a rhythm, each wave reminding. The heater, hardly ever running, runs now. A base line to the rain, together telling me something I might have forgotten or taken for granted had I been out the door to run the red rocket through the early morning weather, as I had done every morning, seven days a week, for years...until late November.
The trick? The play? Each rotation of the rocket’s wheels was a dice roll, leaving luck to the day trippers. Today is not the day, here. Signals, understood by frequency, and every other imaginable mode of collection, how many rotations? Enough! Enough Rotations! Enough data!
Dance steps on hard packed earth, pause. A crow...a coyote, listen, the rain stops, the heater shuts down. The wind...only the wind above the hills, now. The heater comes back on, on cue, so it seems.
I’ve got nothing more that has to been done now then I did then, before Thanksgiving. Here was not my choice, but how has been my end of the bargain. My call, the rotation of those wheels, the signals, the data, the trick, the play...the sum of it all, plus place...beyond place, beyond everything ever imagined, is made. I’m not driving, I’m listening.