We hunkered
down as far from the grid
as
physically possible, shielded from microwaves
by the
craggy heights that surrounded us,
long miles
from any intrusive copper tendrils.
Through the
window we can make out
the
climbing path where it clings precariously
to the damp
edge of a rocky, lichen-encrusted incline.
Not even
the sharpest-eyed observer would be able
to pick out
the little cabin, its wooden
frame faded
by the elements to the dull, dead gray
of its
barren surroundings.
The
interior is Spartan – rough walls, a cot, a few
canned
goods. And there in the corner a three-legged
stool
stands by the cold, ash-choked hearth.
But they’re
here of course, the tiny mechanicals
huddled in
the blackened brickwork,
buzzing
through shadows, wheezing dust
between the
floorboards.
Watching
us. Listening. Recording, transmitting.
Twisting at
the words we say, deconstructing
each one and
examining the resulting fragments
with
interest.
(Originally appeared in The Speculative
Edge)
