It blots out the clear sky like a spreading flat Rorschach test. You will always see them coming —if not alerted by the inky blemish in the air; then the fragrant drift of lotus petals on the wind—or discerning the sound of ethereal flutes, drums, and harps ringing in your ears. These signs announce their approach. (Get ready) From that hanging black spot they emerge, assembling on the ebony cloud/ that forms around their feet. (You’d be excused for mistaking them for angels.) Immaculate, all-identical, vacant eyes, buttery phosphorescent skin. Garbed in gossamer textiles suspended in air in defiance of  gravity—always cooing. Nestled among them, one monumental unmoving apparatus. Another of their kind? A siege engine? This long moment is the sole forewarning for those far below—-swifty they unleash a torrent of  arrows blanketing the ground from the heavens. Achromous pronged bolts and tridents assail you from above, pinning you to the ground. They...