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.