Dry under my porch, I lean against a weathered wooden table, drinking coffee and watching a steady rain.
As I look out toward the mountains, the scene reinterprets itself. The table, my house, the mountains: all of us hurtle upwards, rising faster and faster into the sky, splashing our way through a motionless mist.
Might I only slow, and stop, and find myself among sparkling constellations, each round suspended droplet spinning slowly like a liquid star.
Still gaining speed, I set down my cup, which now seems heavy as it pins the saucer to the table.
How long can we keep climbing like this?