After Ones
they are peaceful
they sit, side by side
just nodding in
their little yellow caps
and their little yellow coats
under a tree
I think a week has gone by
the sun counts things
at home the dust creeps
through the yellow light
they watch it drift
and count the motes
that land on their still bonnets
at last, from underneath
a great flash comes
and a broad thunder
and all the terrible birds of heaven sing
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