The Vaulted Air and the Weight of Green

The pillar stone is damp to the touch, smelling of wet cedar and old incense. Sunlight filters through the stained glass, but the light is deep green now, moving through ferns that grow from the altar floor. I stand near a cedar chest; draped over it is a charcoal coat, tailored wool, the lapel catching the half-light. It belongs to someone who exists only next Tuesday. I just said the word *octarine* and the sound did nothing. Above, a small column of cloud gathers, pressing against the vaulted ceiling. It is a perfect, quiet weather, the kind that weighs down the air like wet flannel. The rain begins, hitting the canopy of leaves and the stone dome together. I turn my head, searching for the source of the sound. The coat shifts on the chest.