Марсианские хроники
December 2001: The Green Morning
Cloudsweregatheringoverthedrymountainsnowashedrewhisblanketoverhisshoulders.Marswasaplaceasunpredictableastime.Hefeltthebakedhillssimmeringdownintofrostynight,andhethoughtoftherich,inkysoil,asoilsoblackandshinyitalmostcrawledandstirredinyourfist,aranksoilfromwhichmightsproutgiganticbeanstalksfromwhich,withbone-shakingconcussion,mightdropscreaminggiants.
Thefireflutteredintosleepyash.Theairtremoredtothedistantrollofacartwheel.Thunder.Asuddenodorofwater.Tonight,hethought,andputhishandouttofeelforrain.Tonight.
Heawoketoataponhisbrow.
Waterrandownhisnoseintohislips.Anotherdrophithiseye,blurringit,Anothersplashedhischin.
Therain.
Raw,gentle,andeasy,itmizzledoutofthehighair,aspecialelixir,tastingofspellsandstarsandair,carryingapepperydustinit,andmovinglikeararelightsherryonhistongue.
Rain.
Hesatup.Helettheblanketfallandhisbluedenimshirtspot,whiletheraintookonmoresoliddrops.Thefirelookedasthoughaninvisibleanimalweredancingonit,crushingit,untilitwasangrysmoke.Therainfell.Thegreatblacklidofskycrackedinsixpowderybluechips,likeamarvelouscrackledglaze,andrusheddown.Hesawtenbillionraincrystals,hesitatinglongenoughtobephotographedbytheelectricaldisplay.Thendarknessandwater.
Hewasdrenchedtotheskin,butheheldhisfaceupandletthewaterhithiseyelids,laughing.
