The sun set bold red in the hazy blue sky, fire born and angry at the incoming darkness. The spark before the storm. The winds ramshackle the newly minted Main and clouded it with rubbish from sites unknown. The entire metallic chimney top joined the street lamp on the black pavement before my home. Wind-torn and broken was that old Spanish conquistador and the tile wasn't ersatz Italian. Rain in fat droplets kissing down upon its ionic charges. Adoration and clowns round out the pattycake of pattering precipitation. Down on your luck is looking up.
This, the kind of storm that made the dead poets yelp and shout for their captain.
We are the kind of people who see the chaos and walk outside and pray to gods made of wheat paste and plaster. Warn the wayward angels who find imperial spas too welcoming and cleanse our neon sodom. Radiation and rain the quenching elixir of our thirst for green Prophets.