Eleven morning. Even the new field lights of towering steel sway like trees. Clouds rough like stretched cotton, pulled to tension, curled in every direction — grey, blue fingers. Low lightning cracks, throws its voice to echo from a different direction, rolls and rattles. Rain increased, fell at 70°, now 80° diagonal.

I wonder at the look — if a storm’s rain fell at once, in a single blanket, like throwing water from a cup.