Atavism

It was just last night the skies opened, as though before the great flood. It came down in furious sheets, too much to believe could be held up there.

There, we point at a spot above although the whole world flashed violet. There. Needing to name it, as we have named everything too large.

She's terrified, but she wants to drive out into it. Maybe it's seduction, a force that large. Maybe we go out to meet it because there's nowhere to hide.

We inch out to the edge of the harbour, past the last lights of the town. The spray from the windscreen wipers are fistfuls of glitter thrown to the wind and there is nothing beyond but the raging dark.

Go back, something small is saying. Go back. You're not suppose to be here.

When we shut the door on this and turn on all the lights it will all seem very far away, but out here the raindrops bouncing off the pavement are shoals of tiny silver fish, as though the black tarred road is the surface of an unseen lake teeming with life, blind blank-eyed creatures shocked into existence by the electric air, and we will laugh later to drown out what it was we felt then.