Across the gray glass stain of the sky, water droplets collect and run as if chased by the wind.  They merge into rivulets.  I reach out, I strain for them with my hair, and (now we’re getting somewhere) I feel the waters of the sky run up individual strands of hair to my scalp and into the veins in my temple, into the sea, and (breathe) I open myself and start to think in a language not my own.