The signal’s weak out here—just one bar flickers
like a porch bulb gnawed by moths. We pixelate,
our bodies glitching through the net’s strict parameters:
Care. No care. Care with a side of ache.

The foothills don’t care what we name ourselves. The creek
will braid its name through us, will sing off-key
of farm trucks drowned in its brackish teeth.
We kneel anyway, scrub our jeans with wild leek,

press send like a hymn. Our voices crack
as static—Slewfoot, the old ones would’ve hissed,
seeing us twined in greenbrier through the gap
where the fence gave way. But the land won’t miss

our absence–router’s small red eye blinks back,
proof we were here. Proof we were more than light.