When they were all called in
to the great ship, keeping one 
eye on the winds carrying 
unimaginable volumes of water

and another on oceans the color
of a long-festering bruise (gone
the rows of silky, scalloped caps):
did anyone want to punish 

the bellwethers by leaving them 
behind, or did they finally believe 
the warnings they rang through each 
town? Before this, rain was merely

something that passed overhead;
grew bored, bowed out. Winters  
were spiked with an icy throb 
like violins. But here's a tarp,
a roof that pounds arrival without
pause. Inside, they pretend the day
of the dove is soon. For that, 
they've even brought candles and cake.   

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