A Stray

The flaming object was thought to be a shooting star.

The villagers were rapt by and in its glow.

The shell, suddenly in their midst.

Afterwards, what should have been done was not.

There had not been time.

There had not been light.

There had not been the will.

Dawn was undecided: appearing, disappearing, reappearing.

The sun hesitant to reveal splintered frames, blackened shards, and protruding carmine streaked arms.

Finally, the golden beam between the night and sand lit three shrouded figures, throwing shadows into infinity as they walked away.

Townsend Walker