The sky is falling. I feel her brush against my cheek, a soft glance of wispy tendrils, moist and cool. The contrast of defiant sun bounces off the lawn, now rich emerald after the rain. Weather gods tousle on the mountain ridges, grey draperies wrap through the trees, inch along the corn. Like heavy train exhaust blasting through the gate railings, clouds race along the ground. To caress the green stems that minutes before had vibrated in sunlight. Would man assume such precision and grace, a ballet of sun and fog, forcing songs of joy from the chests of feathered spectators in the trees.
