On the unbreathing sides of hillsthey play, a specklike girl and boy,alone, but near a specklike house.
The Sun's suspended eyeblinks casually, and then they wadegigantic waves of light and shade.
A dancing yellow spot, a pup,attends them.
Clouds are piling up; a storm piles up behind the house.
The children play at digging holes.
The ground is hard; they try to useone of their father's tools,a mattock with a broken haftthe two of them can scarcely lift.
It drops and clangs.
Their laughter spreadseffulgence in the thunderheads, Weak flashes of inquirydirect as is the puppy's bark.
But to their little, soluble,unwarrantable ark,apparently the rain's replyconsists of echolalia,and Mother's voice, ugly as sin,keeps calling to them to come in. Children, the threshold of the stormhas slid beneath your muddy shoes;wet and beguiled, you stand amongthe mansions you may chooseout of a bigger house than yours,whose lawfulness endures.
It's soggy documents retainyour rights in rooms of falling rain.
