It's never a quiet place. Even the trees are blowing. The people smile. Time means something to them, though they never hurry. They're patient like the sky waiting and overreaching.
Hands sweep the clock, cars the freeways.
Woven and thrown like a net over the hills. Trapping the ground, pinning back the forests. Wrapping water with hard webs of waiting. Houses snagged row upon row, like crab pots tangling time's trolling motors. The crawling occupants soft in their shells waiting for a hungry fisherman to pull them out.