The children were a problem. They learned to mate from the animals. Their offspring, polydactyl and dwarfed, now scrabble in the still retted muck. Was this New Man? And my wife, tired from decades of natality, began knitting our fatal shroud. The house creaks; many of us still feel at sea. All my grapes shall be raisins anon. With a world destroyed by God's Seas, I know not if I am up to the task of remaking it with such base materials: bantlings, wildlife, and an ark now beached like a dying whale. All our plans come to this in the end: swept clean and pregnant with both rebirth and insistent annihilation. I stand on arid Ararat and the rainbow is just beyond my reach, bent and as colorful as Heaven's brow. I can almost touch it. I can almost touch God's promise. In the newspaper I read there's only a 20% chance of more rain.

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