Draw it Down

     Threadlike, the tendril reaches down through the darkening sky. Everything shines blue beyond blue in the twilight, and the shadows are luminous. The bottoms of the clouds glow as well. As does the silvery strand.
     It seems like a miles-long drop of rain, coming from the bottom of the clouds; or maybe it threads through them, through one of the open patches, an opening to more blue among the blue.
     A child plays on the large lot, blue fruit trees in the distance. The grass: blue. Her dress? Blue. The thread is wound around her upraised fist. She runs and laughs -- a toddler's run and a toddler's laugh -- tethered to the sky with a strand of spidersilk.
     A break in the clouds broadens. The moon alone is white. It casts the girl's shadow behind her: blue. She runs and runs and runs, in the awkwardly heavy-legged style known to toddlers everywhere. Her blue shadow grabs at her heels, now behind, now in front, herding her away from the slope down to the ditch and the chainlink fence.
     The moon nudges the blue clouds aside. The strand from the child's fist goes up to the moon, slightly sagging in the way that kite strings, no matter how tightly held or how strong the wind, sag. The child stumbles as she runs in her great circle on the blue grass, momentarily held up by the strand and her arm, but falls anyway, laughing, onto her back. Laughing, she yanks her hand down to her chest. Laughing, the moon falls, growing swiftly larger and larger, leaving a blue hole in the sky behind it.

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