The Watch at the Mountain

Deep in the granite belly of Cheyenne, where the screens never sleep and the coffee goes cold, men in green watch the green — every blip, every arc, every thing that flies over the country's dark skin.

Most of them are ours.

The rest — well. The logs say unknown. The forms say anomalous. The briefings say inconclusive. The colonel says carry on.

Somewhere over Nevada, something moves without engines, turns without physics, stops like it has nowhere it needs to be and all the time that ever was to be there.

The radar sees it. The radar reports it. The radar does not ask questions, which is why the radar has survived this long.

In the mountain, a young lieutenant watches his screen the way you watch a candle when you know something else is in the room. He writes down what he sees. He signs his name. He slides it through the slot.

Somewhere above him — how far above is a matter of security clearance — something watches back.

It has been watching since before the mountain. Before the country. Before the word sky meant something humans needed to defend.

In the granite belly, the screens glow green. The coffee goes cold. The logs say unknown.

And the thing in the sky moves on.

~ Pranam ~ OM ~ aMEn ~

6/10/26, 10:21 p.m.