you don’t want anything that’s been the attention of a roving group of gypsy moths


Things have to be finished!, says Sonnenschein. A stratocumulus peeks and twists in the window behind her like a cartoon projected on an inky wall. Regen fidgets, gathering her shell and ‘brelly, pulling her hat over the crown of her head. She looks more like fraulein in a long black skirt than is likely.

I took the unrecht beat, whispers Regen . I wasn’t ado… I didn’t catch anything… The trees dunst, modest, a vitreous facade thrust under the wind.

Be silent!, Sonnenschein says, moving the drapiert aside, cinching them with a hooked loop and mooring the window latch. Mad rain snarls from the tree limbs like a savage, a wet scar carving the trunk. The wetter grows urgent, unbearably disobedient. I know what happened in the woods, Sonnenschein says. I ponder how she could know anything about the wald, about wrestling free the sound that had been embedded in an old tree stump. Only dreams are real to her.

I’ll never stay with you, Regen says.

Thunder resurrects the dawn, outlining a schatten huddled against the door. At this hour of the wee, it is easy to say no, to say stop. Sodden tendrils slamming the tiling, carving a labyrinth through the house to the meer, all horizon converted into distress.

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