In my parent's car, I would stare out of the back seat window just following those power lines.
As the car sped along highways and roads those power lines would dip and rise and then momentarily the flow would be interrupted by a wooden power pole and the lines would dip and rise again.
I used to love wondering why birds could sit on them, unaware of the power and unaffected by the danger.
I loved that those lines carried this magic that powered our house.
I loved black outs on stormy nights, stumbling around in the dark for candles and a match.
I wondered if the tension wires that anchored all of the last poles to the earth were live.
Suburbs with underground lines seemed different, missing something somehow. I wonder what those children look at from their back seat windows.