Virga’s weave is all about us. Her winds rustle our hair and her warm earth hums beneath our toes. The fish in the stream luxuriates in the cool waters, the fox the green fern, the cricket mouse the shadow of night. Virga blankets us with her love. And yet we stumble blind through her weave. We cry out for her sustenance, when it is in fact all around us. Such is man, fallen from the weave. Such is man, always. —Soppros, Conversations II
