by Amandeep Jutla
The rain surgeons have no faces. They come when they’re called, on black wings. They do what they must, and then they are gone. They are inhumanly fast, because they are inhuman. They are inhuman because they must be. The job demands it. The rain surgeons don’t, can’t, think about implications. They only act. They match patterns. They follow rules.
When the surgeons fly in, life on the ground changes. Fingers are pointed at the sky. Tears are shed. Appeals are made. The surgeons are, as always, unmoved.
Every surgery’s an algorithmic procedure, carried out with ruthless precision and without anesthesia. Yes, the clouds scream. No, the surgeons do not hear. They work in swarms, each with its set of tools – blades, nozzles, seeders.
When they leave, the clouds have been transformed, and so has their freight.
This is eerily beautiful!
this is brilliant – love it