The local hawk froze in midair to make sense of such a sound\u2014the sound of Canoe realizing the patter of rain against tin. Tin and tin and tap and tin\u2014in its peculiar music, Canoe angled his neck to closer observe this phenomenon. Alone and drenched, he knocked on the shed for any kind of reaction, but it remained still as if it was supposed to remain as such\u2014Canoe had never been in the rain before. He didn’t notice the frozen hawk in the gray sky looking down at him with still wings. There was a sun, too\u2014beyond the statue\u2014in a distant way, unnoticed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His palms were open\u2014facing the sky, the drops breathed a new life on his skin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tongue out\u2014soft bits of tickle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He knocked on the metal again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A door opened. A figure appeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho am I,\u201d Canoe said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMake me,\u201d a figure said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Canoe lifted his hands to the sky\u2014the local hawk, its beak shone amid the rain, the gray of the air formed around its shape. Feathers pressed and neat and wet, the eyes of a curious gaze set on Canoe and a figure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is rain,\u201d a figure said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor me. Who am I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTone and texture,\u201d a figure said. \u201cGive me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Canoe moved his head around\u2014the statue, still cemented above. A wing and a wing, stretched as far as the horizon. Pitter and patter below. The tin and the rain, songs never heard before. All Canoe knew was silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I speak,\u201d Canoe said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI am no stranger,\u201d a figure said. \u201cHere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A cold shade in his hand, Canoe wrapped his fingers around it. The local hawk, curling its talons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to look up,\u201d Canoe said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLook up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Beyond a figure\u2014past the rattling tin shack, no vision appeared. Walls and walls rain. Canoe felt blind, a sensation accustomed, but a figure persisted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPut your hand inside of me. I need it. Give me light.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLight. I am not here, am I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Compelled. Canoe lifted his chin, the rain, in small drops, peppered his face\u2014a stinging. He forced his eyes open, an adjustment\u2014a flinch. The local hawk cracked its wings from its own petrification. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this sound?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s the sound of a song.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The rain bounced against the tin, a music which made Canoe want to move. There was movement, and a figure twisted and turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPut your hand inside\u2014cover me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAm I confused?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPut me together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is not me,\u201d Canoe said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cListen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA rain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Canoe noticed a speck in the sky, delineated from the rest of the air\u2014a presence felt. The tin and the tin, metallic echoes pelting through his pores, he felt a gravitation. A pull, which inched closer to a figure. Gray against black against nothing, Canoe opened his mouth to shout\u2014mute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was no time in its being, the local hawk breaking its mold, shifting its head. Melting wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI want to go back,\u201d Canoe said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once spoken, Canoe put a hand inside a figure, a shrilling light tore through\u2014booming squawks, and there was a silence. A figure taking shape\u2014colors splashed, a rain no longer. The tin shack stood staunched, reborn, and Canoe disappeared\u2014a figure with life. Away, skies approached with anticipation, and as Canoe entered, one last vision. The local hawk, in all its glimmer, flew and changed the air\u2014a light and a sketch and a shine of the tin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
________<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Shome Dasgupta is the author of<\/em> The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), and most recently, the novels <\/em>Cirrus Stratus (Spuyten Duyvil) and <\/em>Tentacles Numbing (Thirty West), and a poetry collection, <\/em>Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in <\/em>McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, <\/em>New Orleans Review, <\/em>Arkansas Review, <\/em>Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He is the series editor of the Wigleaf Top 50. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at @laughingyeti<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"