The crew has come: caravan of vehicles
stationed on the road, unstacking cones
and digging ditches, deft and environment friendly.
Right here in our yards, lengthy years of earth
have been hefted by hand and heaped up on tarps.
A pneumatic mole emerges from the trailer,
and a heavy hose is hauled into place.
With a pop, the pumping compressor wakes
with startling power. The strata are threaded,
pierced by the pounding energy that forges
a buried boulevard. This burrow will convey
packets with payloads, pulses of sunshine
modulated with that means in marks and areas,
carrying commerce and dialog.
The uproar ebbs by afternoon.
Machines are shut down and shovels return,
masking conduits with clods of soil.
The sod is reset and soaked completely.
It’s late now. They load the final of the gear.
The dirt-girded duct is darkish and untapped.
The glass-road will run to succeed in the homes
after charges are paid, when the ultimate strands
will mate with modems and make connections.
