[Today’s run: rest day]
In tall and grassy noise I hear a peep. A zed el from New Zealand's tiny bleat that echos with a hollowness of space, distorted by collisions with the globe, refractions in the layered atmosphere. I take my key and tap a quick reply while hoping that some larger station's call does not monopolize the Kiwi's ear, but that he'll hear me likewise in the air and recognize my smaller wattage note as something meekly sent with best regards and kind intentions. And imagine here me hov'ring in the glow of dial lights half 'round the world, a mirror of himself.