Sirens mingle with the fall of rain. The gentle patter is strangely unsettling, as if its purpose is only to distract, to silence the garden’s narrative, destroying all latent evidence. An unseen engineer slides its master on the mixing desk and for a moment each thought is drowned. Dissipation follows, recalling haunted scenes: the stolen pick-up, roaring away into the night. But hope remains for weather like this at home, to wash away the blood, to pacify onlookers who gaze in disbelief that anyone could be so callous as to floor it and leave it all behind. Just to be swept aside, leaving the lingering smell of sodden ground.