FLIGHT LINE

 

Nothing much happening out here. A passing car with its radio too loud. Casually it seems, as in all politics, local. A small yellow butterfly. Vagrant thoughts – make no mistake – great world leaders are busy deciding what to blow up next, maybe all of us. History preserves fossils of uncivilized warlords, robbers, charlatans.

Hindsight now. This cyberworld is interconnected, already comprising complex algorithms, artificial intelligence that programs itself, unforeseeable results and “we apologize for any inconvenience.”

I've been looking for a catch phrase, something with an optimum dosage, a pill to ease the digestion, similar to the usual blather. An acronym, like so many popping up here in the Valley of Capital's Delight:

Great Lackeys In Broadcasting

Radio GLIB will blab as well as any other talk show. Tune in whenever you like.

Though there's no radio back here. Birds. We do weather, seeds, sometimes our cat Frankie crouches, lurks, and leaps. But not fast enough. Even a sharp eye could miss what just happened.

They flew in tight formation and landed on my knuckle. A fly argument, mating ritual, combination? At some signal I missed they took off together, wings glistening. A moving sight, unexpectedly.

Save the pun for later.

Blowing things up, of course, won't be much affected by this. Not the point. What do flies know?

But no matter what, they'll be around.



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