Are You Current

A little way round, the trail turns into a street of houses that have been improved. The porches have gone soft. They sag in the middle and lift at the corners, held up from underneath by vines as thick as a wrist. On the nearest a man in a robe is telling a woman on the sidewalk what his roof cost.

A vine along the rail glows green as he gets to the figure. Mine leaks, the woman says. The glow goes amber and holds.

Low on the porch wall, letters have grown in the vine, pale and joined. They spell: Are you current. Are you form.

From under the porch comes one low steady note.