River of Feather & WebCarolyn Guinzio
They have not found it yet. The boys on the bridge scour the ground. So many things like shiny things, stolen things. The web shimmers when it has something to say, speaking through the feet. Every boy wants to be the one, after weeks of searching with the dogs through the fields. It has been so long since it rained. The mouths of hungry crows grow black. They’re getting colder all the time. A dead lead dried into thinness, died into you can still see where it was, the shirts and shelters close-to-almost warm. Clouds don’t mean to be kind or unkind, blocking the catch and burning in a winter-widened sky. It has been so long since it rained. The egg in the throat has opened to speak. The boys say there is nothing here now. Their hands so covered in the dirt they raked, and no water left to put them in. Rubbing the hands together against carrying the cold, the dirt, and what has happened. They don’t want to leave it, and they don’t want to take it home. It has been so long since it rained.
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