The bladder of the sky goes leaky like a broken faucet, and the sun hides its face when it’s July. The inclement cloud that canopies us will no longer hold, bedwetting the earth in a flood. Some say this is when the gods become human and crumble into mourning. To be a god is to hold the uneasy weight of the world. The thundering torrents are proof of this grief, and we can only measure the extent of their pain by the impact of the flood. So, we go in search of a higher ground — a place water cannot swallow — and then build an abode in the semblance of an ark. In our wait for the coming of the bright days I am often drenched in wonder: what is it about water that makes it sullen?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Nick Scheerbart on Unsplash