The jagged mountains gnaw the bottoms of the galloping clouds, ripping them into tufts as they pour, panting and spent, into the valley. The wind comes in most nights like a howling drunk, throwing things down the street and beating the windsocks senseless.
The sky burns and weeps and stews, and the pilots below send fervent prayers that she will never be too peaceful.
This place is as bland and suburban as any bland, suburban street could ever aspire to be. It's all trimmed lawns and immaculate topiaries. It's tricycles and soccer fields and mid-sized SUV's.
And then there's The Point.
The Point extends a claw into the river of wind that flows down the valley. It stirs turbulence. It sends air careening skyward, throwing up a wall of lift that thousands of people strap on a nylon wing and hurl themselves into. It's a gate to heaven. It's poetry. It's irresistible.
Gates are interesting places.
I see the sly-eyed lycanthropes that live here. I smell their hunger. I hear the live wires snapping in their depths. Others see their freedom; others see them fly. I see their anger. I see them them taunt the stones below.
I hear the stories of their hunts. I see them circle each other. I see them take their prey.
Little lamb, how did you not see the wolves? And why do you yet offer yourself to those teeth, now that you know their sharpness?