sweet n' low 1/2 (imitation sugar)

I remember how in old movies, a romantic guy would flap out his coat in a puddle for his girlfriend to step on, because he was some sweet son of a bitch.

Who really does that? Certainly not anyone I know.

But I'm talking about a farm.

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These roads are thin like they could only fit a single set of chairs in a row, and it doesn't go on too far. The grass isn't grass here.

It is long, thirsty strips of sandpaper, sometimes patchy, growing out of rocks and slate. Colors like denim or burlap have extended above the horizon. I know the field is turning over. Animals are bustling into their coups and sleeping dens.

Sometimes, a low buzzing noise comes from the windmill. Yes, a windmill - a fucking small one, but it works in this technologically-deprived community.

Only a few tin shacks stand upright. There is one flanking another every two feet. The farmers (I guess that's the standard occupation) even have their own tiny picket fence at the front - it looks like two pieces, though, because it separates at the door.

All these blue waves and starchy plants and silver glinting boxes fuse together into a realization - look, look behind it all.

Backyards...?

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Yeah, I would never have guessed. Satellite dishes.

I've seen this sort before. In my boyfriend's backyard. It is a cheap construction of wires and bulbs and tubes; like an outdoor intenna for the television.

Not satellites.

What are the people doing?

They're listening. The buzzing isn't from the windmill afterall; I walk to it, and it gurgles and creaks. The buzzing is actually from outside the galaxy.

This is true pil(gr[im)age].