The Great Rubber Band Ball We Live On

White lines. Black lines. Metal lines. Stone lines. Concrete lines. Cinderblock lines.
Earth lines.
Lines crisscrossing the blue brown ball like stitched plaid.
Running between mountains and houses, between cities and woodlands.
Running through barren desert, where nothing moves but wind and sand.
Lines separating emptiness from hollowness.
The bald eagle flew from branch to peak to ledge.
Flying high, soaring effortlessly over the thick lines, over the broken lines.
Over the lines etched and stitched by man.
Lines on the surface of the earth.
The lines spoke of art from up at eagle high.
Something to look at, something to examine, a huge canvas.
From up high where the bald eagle glided over the lines.
Which seemed like pencil brush strokes.
Or scratched with a box-cutter.
Barely affecting anything but the gravity bound.
There must be a point, thought the bald eagle.
These endless lines, running like strings thrown randomly on the surface.
There must be a point, thought the bald eagle.
It is art for the passing celestial body.
It is art to communicate something about Earth.
The lines are everywhere, these lines that are straight.
These lines that curve, in squares, circles and triangles, broken at odd angles.
The Earth is filled with them, and new ones.
New ones going up with every break of day.
New lines being drawn, erected, between things, separating things from things.
Or are they connecting things?
Old lines being dismantled.
New lines being created.
Someday, maybe…
The Earth will look like…
A rubber-band ball…
Thought the bald eagle.
Twisted into a tight suffocating ball.
The rubber bands will break.
The lines replaced with new ones.
A work in progress, thought the bald eagle.
A great Earth art project,
A great Earth art experiment, the artist finding balance.
Fighting for balance.
This right. No, that right.
The right esthetic, making it right.
Never satisfied with these lines, though.
New lines seem to cause other lines to appear.
New lines bust through old lines.
The eagle flew high, soaring in the wind.
Soaring in the sky, the line-free sky.
The eagle thought about lines in the sky.
Could lines be drawn in the sky?
Someone will figure out a way, thought the bald eagle.
The lines will not remain Earth-bound.
They were alive and moved and grew, like unstoppable roots.
And they will grow upwards someday.
The lines will come up to where the bald eagle soared.
And extend out into the heavens.
This great Earth art experiment will go on and on.
And will never end.
The never-ending art experiment on the third planet.
Thought the bald eagle, as it flew higher and higher.
Never losing site of an Earth line, somewhere, everywhere.
Earth lines. Everywhere.

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