The swilling drips jump from roofs and trees, clapping their hands, stomping their feet, glowing like firework embers at cathedral heights down, down to the limestone spatter of funerals in motion. And soon the dam exhales particulate spit like a drunkard at a foul memory, and the river hisses hot smoke and smolders with the cinder sprinklings of firefly romance beneath the flutter of the softening night, inarticulate except in its drift that carries the country across itself and does not rise until every naked stone knows the wet mouth of the sky.