Moment

One of those afternoons
where sun follows rain
follows sun follows rain
and the cattle remain undecided.

Two children, paused
between home and horizon,
between action and consequence,
linked by fingers interlinked, by

three years of torment, and by
three desperate red minutes
that rang out like the noon bell
and set the birds to flight.

Four crows
do not a murder make,
but murder was made
nonetheless.

Five minutes from now
the rain will return,
the rainbow will be lost
and the children also.