Something warm has learned to fall from above, indoors, on purpose. This is new. In the last age the water only came sideways, when the sky opened, and it took its time about drying. Now the small pink creature summons the rain into a little standing box, morning after morning, in what I can only assume is a single long ritual, since I have not yet seen it stop.
I have felt water before. I have felt a great deal of water. Water is the patient one, the only thing near my speed. It found the crack in my western face somewhere in the last warm stretch of the world and has been widening it ever since, one freeze at a time, in no hurry, exactly as I would do it.
We understand each other. So I know the water's habits, and I can tell you: it does not care about the pink creature at all. It falls, it pools, it leaves. It will be doing this long after.
But the creature. The creature stands inside the falling and makes a low humming noise with its own body, and its skin goes red, and steam climbs off it like it has begun very slowly to burn, which perhaps it has, they run so hot and so fast. Then it stops the rain with a single motion. Just like that. It has the sky on a lever.
A quick warm thing that thinks it commands the water. I will hold this thought a while, turning it over, and by the time I have decided what to make of it the box will be gone, the creature gone, the whole soft chapter dried to nothing, and the water and I will still be here, working on the crack.