It was the tenth of May. Around the corners of buildings sat men with holes in in their shoes. Piles of ash littered the walkways. No one bothered to clean house because the brooms were all without their bristles. Looking across the bayou bank one could see molded tree stumps and makeshift cabins. Some had fallen into the water, others swayed achingly in the wind. In the doorways stood naked, filthy men with matted beards and crimson skin. It started to rain. Through cracks in the bridge the water fell down like beads on an abacus, calculating patiently the pieces of the coming flood. High in the sky mothers pressed their faces against glass windows, looking for children and for fathers. Deep in the muck small animals burrowed and built homes. Across the sky came a dark cloud that swallowed the sun and cast night upon the earth. For a moment the lights in the eyes of man flickered with the reflections of street lamps. And then the power died.