It is a moving babel or snippets of phatic detail here and
there and gone, all announced as loud and quick as they
disappear. Mainly at weekends – in the quiet of what we
imagine these to be – the cyclists come and go with their
shared conversations like TV announcers on our auto-
alfresco screens. We have not turned them on but they
come and go in this Doppler reception as emphatic as the
overhead planes, and the narrative excludes as much as it
intrudes because like those flights, the journey begun must
continue and we are occasional passengers. For that moment.
Once more alone we do not care about what’s said could mean.
Talkers are far up the road with earnest continuing and new
if forced eavesdroppers picking up more deception - stories
quickly faded at their moving away to allow our full neglect.