The old man passed over the rooftop of Brinton farm and Middlely. The night orange hiss glowed above the county towns to the north. The countryside. He threaded the stars orange spangleblue and white. There was a sound that followed him. Not the hissing electricity sparking from the shoulders of the pylons over the towns and countryside. This was a thick low hum; sad and familiar, like radio static. The sound of dreams.
Sometimes there were words among the bees. The words came from behind a very heavy curtain, very far away. No sense to them. They came alone or one would be connected to another. The words butted and collided.
The orchard was beneath a gauze of fog. He passed through it, inches from the ground, circled the trees. He gazed at the homes and the corduroy fields and the bay and these snatches of language reached him. The street lights globed, blended the blues and threw shadowshapes over everything but him. He perched on the wardrobe in the boy’s room. He watched the boy sleeping. The hum was weak in the boy’s sleep , he put his voice out into the void. He wanted to say sorry, but he said the words butter door.