Thunderstorms coagulate above molting birds of prey at humid sunset. Straight rain imagines nothing else. Rapiers of rain fall in escadrilles like devils after pride through thoraxes crucified under bags of windless perdition. And people walk, and wrinkle, and run before rain. They run realizing advancing time- through slashes of aureate beaming and whites undisturbed by shade, past cedar shakes across the avenue past patches of devaluation in unwashed streams of vesper light.
Devolution has a stealthy march.
A giant is revealed in the yellow pine that felt no axe sixty years ago. Not rolled into the river beside its tusk-like brethren when this tract of neighborhood was cleared and these lilting structures were framed by quarter sawn beams from Canada. It drinks in thunderstorms. It looks without awe at heaven. It bends to no wind in any season.