The hills create puddles of frequencies, cycles repeating. The road flickers through them. Radio stations drift in and away. They wander out in static, jumping together in unexpected ways, with unannounced urgency and chance inconsistency, or serendipity. Returning again to the place they left, seconds later. Portions of seconds lost across the hills to frequencies bouncing, not stopped by. Rock and Roll becomes Spanish evangelism, if only for a moment. Late night jazz gives its soft way to talk radio streaming across the bay from Berkeley or beyond. Serious conversation had in abbreviated pieces with serious people, riding on rates of occurrence. Advertisements toppling them all, capital concerns oscillating, chopping across the valley with routine regularity; onward transmissions. Local affairs, or larger considerations. Leftists announcing their strategies of resistance. Murmuring their intentions towards the better society, murmuring their fears, hushing us into the future. One can imagine the signals bouncing off the rocks as they meet in moonlight, can almost feel the radio traps approaching in the dark. With closed eyes the waves are so easily seen. Between two hills I imagine that I am traveling through fields of fuzzy sound, passing through the static of time; of course I am, just like the gentle bending of roads.
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