December MMXXIII
We're heading into the final round
A falcon dips over the ridgeline, blue gray against blue gray. The leaves float dry and dull beneath the trees; they paper the mouths of drainage grates. A single rainstorm would flood the boulevard, but weather remains cold and clear for now, legalistic; a few snowflakes drift sourceless to the pavement. Under the regional transit center pavilions, the chill masks the scent of urine pooling in unsurveilled corners. Graffiti on the brickwork, condemnatory, legible for once, refers to slaughter by distant governmental proxies. Neither medium nor message has any sway over the electeds, nothing so improvised, sways only the self-respect of certain junior staffers, who still go about on public transit wages. Their employers, geriatric or generally addlepated, mumble through scripts written before their birth. Precedent weighs heavy. Their speech might have been apt for an occasion but that occasion has long passed, leaving only a thin metallic reverberation, last lights over a sluggish brown river as it moves on towards the sea, iron black on the horizon.
On permitted advertising spaces the usual festive cheer reigns. Online sports betting and parlors offer seasonal discounts. Pigeons bed on the scaffolding, fouling up the advertising copy, provisioning the hawks and falcons. Their human equivalents have no need to be outdoors. They pilot low polygon electronic automobiles, turn up avenues of increasing land value. At city limits the schools are no longer intermittently heated. Billboard signage is prohibited, renters discouraged. Automatic floodlights actuate on the approach. A push notification notifies the gate has been unbarred. A few extra billions have been allocated to fund longstanding global security partners. Our resolve remains strong, has been strengthened, says a spokesperson, amidst reports of civilian casualties far higher than initially reported. A corresponding spike has appeared in the stock price of certain publicly traded government contractors. The walkway path lights up the front door. A hypoallergenic dog gazes placid out the living room window. Keypad access is granted. The hoot of night owls ruffles the country quiet. Sleep will be deep and will lasting. Those who sleep best need give no public rational at all. They float adroit, on whatever wind will blow them home.
