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34 Grounding At noon the cloud-plume’s whorled face divides the sky, weather unstable for flight. So Fidelito, sullen and gray, fills a stiff chair by the window and sulks like a salty rag. Swimming, water streaks the glass . . . Fidelito, looking out angrily, admires stars. They can’t resist drawing their wings back inside the storm’s mouth. He wonders—what now that winds pull the hair of trees? Then the rain. Its hollow fingers strum against the roof. Poor Fidelito. How children drown in the language of thundershowers. Now, he thinks, mockery is being made of him, grounded. The rain gutters pool long necklaces of sound, making asphalt gleam. Somewhere, Fidelito thinks, the stars and their shrouded eyes peer into his dry house. ...

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