They carved our city with rain. Once there was just stone to the sky. The rain herders pushed clouds through cracks. They shaped the stone into spirals.
Every day, we climbed the tower to watch. On the stairs, we pretended our footsteps were rain patter. We looked out on billowing spires. Shapes glimmered in the smooth plummets. Stone soared into damp skies. I leaned from the window and caught handfuls of cloud. It melted in my grip. We gazed through the falling water at blurred pathways we couldn’t walk. We recited their names from old maps. Our voices sounded rain-smoothed. Our breath looked like cloud wisps.
We knew the city was still being made and we dreamed of stone they hadn’t shaped. Sometimes, I went to the tower tops on my own and listened for the herders beneath the night rains. Their words were strange sounds I didn’t know. I whispered them to myself when I walked down the winding stairway. I tried to remember them.
We don’t climb the tower anymore. The stone twists and looms into the clouds, but we can’t see the rain herders now. I try to read the old maps. I draw pathways where they’ve faded. We give names to places the herders haven’t yet carved. The rains are still falling. We live at our windows. We watch. We wait for the city to be finished.