Battle Fronts

Low evening rain. Do the trees weep, or does the sky? Gray margins swirl. Yesterday the sun was a brightness, on the wrists of small boys. They played out a violent movie a shrill mock savagery, shouts of strife were merrily cast, the fallen littering a sunny lawn. Tonight, I hope the owls keep blinking. The light dims so slow, a pre-nocturnal spume of dank air labors to rise. A battle has been lost, even the victorious are wounded by a dreary weariness, and now the heavens seep through a shroud of tears.