Guns lined up,
they move like kinfolk,
as if they’ve made love to one another,
at one point.
Under the sycamore
they wait out the storm,
editing one another’s thoughts.
Across the path,
they see a boy pedaling,
away from the thunder,
towards the water.
They watch as he plays by himself;
teacups and teakettles,
skipping stones, catching frogs,
fingers out, the tips up, like lightning rods.