The Tempest

Two young girls are playing on a slope.
Two hours ago they saw a horse bring forth a snake.
Their father saw a crowning head of hope.
Their mother saw a tempest darkening a lake.

Two young girls are playing on a slope.
One hour ago they found the husks of three young guys
burned to death, their bodies bound with rope.
The girls collected gemstones from the empty eyes.

Two young girls are playing on a slope.
They’re throwing painted pebbles in the air
Sometimes the pebbles fall, sometimes they float.
The girls do not yet know that life’s not fair.

Two young girls are playing on a slope.
One hour from now they shall finally be seen;
two microbes dancing in a microscope
by a Nevada farmboy on a high-end plasma screen.

Two young girls are playing on a slope.
Two hours from now they will not see the drone
or wormy fire balloon, kaleidoscope.
One girl will die, and one return alone;
a pebble painted, tossed to fly or fall, or float.
Two young girls are playing on a slope.