The sky filled with trailing threads of black as the storm went through; she guessed they were really just specks before her eyes. Clouds roiled and poured their scribbled stain. Trees dripped their tears. Then afterwards the footpaths sighed, sweet incense rising high.
In the morning the path by their garden fence trailed dark threads all its own, thousands of crawling ants scribbling their secret messages. Her husband wanted to spray. She asked, “Can’t we just wash them away with soap.” He said no.
In the evening the doorsteps was covered with specks, dead ants in storms of silent condemnation.