When it happens the rain is not black but powder. A noise bleeds from your ears and everything quakes alive inside you: the circuits of the flowers lighting up across a meadow, the nanoglow of a sea years from here —:And like the flash across an event horizon, your thought disappears :—and then the mind threshed, and then the brain a perfume of proto-pollen: a microscopic cloud radiating in a geranium in the meadow of another country: a powder the elk eat in the sudden black rain. Copyright © 2016 Sara Eliza Johnson. Used with permission of the author. |
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