I don't have long to type. The skies were clear for awhile, not long ago, and they noticed. They got a taste for it, a reminder of the way it once was. Now they want more. They've opened up the lightning valves. Out fly the sparks.
Look up at the brazen sky, flaunting its goodness to all. Up there, tiny particles are accreting. They make trails the planes disrupt, cavitation popping bubbles of rich stew, but the jets can't be everywhere. The rays sleet through from above. The mists rise up from below, and moisten rich fields of fluffy white. Then the lightning valves, and the sparks. Ole Doc Frankenstein never had it so good. A laboratory as wide as the sky.
And when the stew is shot through and through, out tumble the embryos, four eight sixteen thirty-two bomb-blastocysts too light to fall. Sixty-four. Made of light. One hundred twenty-eight. Growing against a backdrop of white, occasional blue flickering nothing but an amusement for bored children. Watch the ice thickening on the wings, nothing serious, nothing to take note of. Say nothing. Two fifty-six.
One day soon, the myriad eyes of the sky will open and they will look down upon the land. I fear they will find us wanting. The lightning valves will open wide, and out will fly the sparks.
It is then the clouds go hunting.
- 10/18/2001, 4/11/2002
©2002 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated April 11, 2002.