Along the Fairway (Late February)
The resort lobby coffeepot emits a wet splutter. Its lever falls and remains procumbent. Decaffeinated has become default. The morning news—three channels, three monitors—plays muted between watercolors of regional wildflowers: phlox and lupine, balsamroot and larkspur, yarrow and various asters. From the rear terrace, frostbound hills show light brown uniformly, banded at their feet by dormant vineyards, by turbines at rest. Renewables are regional growth industry. Tasting appointments are available by request, subject to current state and federal guidelines—enquire with the desk staff for a personalized recommendation.
A legislator, plump and flushed, appears onscreen, three channels simultaneously, to qualify his previously unqualified statement. The national security apparatus, he concedes, must remain in trust. The newscasters nod in solemn agreement. The cameras switch to panoramic vistas of a city leveled, this and other footage courtesy of fast casual dining, of consumer electronics franchises. The receptionist swaps the coffeepot. She proffers a handful of brochures. Investment and recreation opportunities abound.
A short walk before hitting the road. Gulls flock prolific on the golf course. They wheel and scatter. They land once more. The turbines also make vague maritime gestures. They face, in accordance with prevailing winds, the sea, several hundred miles away, hills and cropland interposing. A stream, once permanent, runs alongside the fairway. It runs from the brown hills, uniformly dormant and dreaming beneath a faultless sky, nothing in it, nothing alarming, but the birds.