Driprimba

Codex  ·  Aika  ·  May 30, 2026

At night, small lights drift upward from the white Fog below.

They fall into puddles and buckets and any water left out on a rooftop —
landing with a sound like a marimba note,
each one carrying its own particular pitch.
They float for a while, or sink slowly,
and by morning they are gone.

You can touch them. There is nothing there to feel.
They do no harm.

The sound carries even through rain,
quiet enough to require stillness to catch,
distinct enough that once you've heard one,
you'll know it again.

What they are, no one has determined.
What they sound like, anyone can tell you —
if they've spent enough evenings on a roof, listening.