The white fluff of heaven was getting everywhere, and there was no escaping that the shapes of the clouds had changed, as if God, in his old age, had picked up a paint brush, tired of cumuli, and swept and scalloped every bit of vapor in shades of blue, orange, pink and white, and it was beautiful, though there was nothing to hold the rain anymore. As deserts dried, towns drown in unaccountable deluge. Not like the first time—that young and angry version of himself—now he was carefree. He’d accepted the fate of the human world, its workings too intricate even for him to tamper with. What they’d set in motion would play itself out. Meanwhile, he’d daub little miracles of beauty here and there, his love poem to a once-favorite world—dynamic and wonderous—where life had unfolded, one delightful surprise after another, for a few billion years.
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Al Fournier
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