The exasperation, even given the vagaries Of atmospheric phenomena and ill-placed cell towers Was fully apparent as you snipped The problem must be on your end, (Perhaps something else there as well Tangible but fading in and out with the signal) And most likely you were right, The lay of the land around here Fraught with no small portion of glacial hijinks: Moraines cutting off abruptly In half-finished bell curves, high-ridged valleys Which transform squalls and thunderstorms Into mad, howling meteorological harpies (But listen, I said, to how they play catch With the sound of fireworks or church bells Until they seem to come from nowhere Yet everywhere at once, But I suspect that part of the call Was bamboozled by an inconvenient hillside).
...can follow an airplane across the sky for hours (I’d parked the car at the top Of Bootjack Hill, your voice returning As the ancient, acid-washed stones Of the old cemetery came into view) And you’ve never seen such crisp, sharp light In all your days, and before I could respond You said softly, almost conspiratorially Now don’t you start with your silliness About sorbet skies at dusk, As if sunsets or poetry ever put groceries in the cupboards, And I would have sworn, Even you spoke in little more than a murmur, That you had never left at all, But were no more than a few feet away.