A fecundity that follows you through the rain on a dim day, on a day when the grass is curled fetal against blade’s battering and the jetstream sour of powerwash sprinklers. This is the law of the corn-maze and the pumpkin patch; this in itself an immensity under the full hollowness of the sky and the people’s howling. People being the wrong term, a term for united folk, a term like human bleached and kept small in systematic neglect. People and Human are ideas that never grow larger than their frames of wire and bone, and the howl is, too, hopeless. There is nothing in it to flesh or save or refurbish, only the raw red callow of a throat echoing in the air. You can hear the heave the lungs gave. You can feel the crouched soreness.
But don’t you dare consider ignoring the rain in the face of that abiotic shouting. Rain is what water touches you from the sky, the sweat of fearful people in planes, the sweat of wrongdoers, the sweat of
The over five hundred people who have gone missing in the sky. Something ate them, right? Feathers and tears and gall and all, they’re not anymore, not anything but the rain.