Gray shapes moved through blue fields,
and foothills faded to starry skies.
She’d traveled there and back again,
yearning through the kitchen window.
Beyond the lawn and chalky curb,
Over boxes full of tiny people,
To the edge of the horizon and back to here.

He was talking still somewhere.
Lips and teeth and tongue and clicks and clacks.
There was speech and sound but mostly noise,
And she wondered when it would all end,
and then it did.
And it was quiet,
But there was no calm.