The young mother wore a purple fringed shawl. I watched from elsewhere on the street as her arms spilled from beneath the shawl, her breasts spilled white from the shadow, the rip-rip of her shopping bag and the spill of her foodstuffs onto the pavement, rolling oranges long away under hard spaghetti rain.

The bag sounds the trumpets of the world’s revealing. The bag is the sound of the failures of man. Her face is anointed with the sorrow of angels and the judgments of God and the questions on the lips of children when they wonder why’s the fountain got stairs into it if I’m not allowed down to swim?

The oranges rolled toward me while I watched her eyes, dark as dull knives they were, and I knew when they hit me, the Great Flood will follow behind her, creating the strange fugue in the wind I know from the other times the oceans have been moved and that.

I saw the water line rise over the buildings which lined the street, gray and wrong-looking for a line of steely cloud cover. Instead it was the way it looks when it’s all turned up-to-down, and the young mother’s baby cried loud like a strange bird. I felt fear for the water, but did nothing to run. I caught her shawl in my hands blown off in the quiet.

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