The rain came down in buckets.

In heaps and sideways stacks.

Like knives and blades and pretty things.

Those were aiming for their backs.

I said, “You sound so paranoid.

All flat earth and out of tune.

Pretty soon, you’ll tell us.

That no one landed on the moon.”

Seeing smiles on those faces.

Who knew more than I could know.

Whose conspiracies that some came true.

And it’s to the hills we go…