World Enough and Time
This is the way the world ends. With salt.
It falls from an overcast sky the color of tarnished steel. Not in blizzards, and not all at once. It started sometime in the early spring as a fine, steady sprinkle that stung when it fell, like dust settling around you. I lie awake at night and hear it, insidious and deadly, like so much sand blowing against the window.
It gets in the air conditioner and burns out the motor. It rusts car engines and bridges and buildings. It fills the lakes and streams and rivers until fish float belly up, dead and buoyed in briny water. It drifts into curbs and alleyways, and everywhere you walk, you feel it crunch beneath your feet. It gets in your hair. It gets in your food. It gets in your clothes and you can’t get it out of the bed
