For Thomas Edwards Wanning br br br Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily br like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, br listen to it growling. br br Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys br lying out there unresponsive to the lightning br in dark, coarse-fibred families, br br where occasionally a heron may undo his head, br shake up his feathers, make an uncertain comment br when the surrounding water shines. br br Think of the boulevard and the little palm trees br all stuck in rows, suddenly revealed br as fistfuls of limp fish-skeletons. br br It is raining there. The boulevard br and its broken sidewalks with weeds in every crack, br are relieved to be wet, the sea to be freshened. br br Now the storm goes away again in a series br of small, badly lit battle-scenes, br each in "Another part of the field." br br Think of someone sleeping in the bottom of a row-boat br tied to a mangrove root or the pile of a bridge; br think of him as uninjured, barely disturbed.