The top has been struck by lightning twice; it is on fire with flame and the sound of their scream reaching out to touch her I feel the sense of urgency growing like a knot in the ground at the baby’s howling: there’s a feeling you’re supposed to have when you know you’re being wrong; when you know there’s something to be done. “I am a mother,” the woman speaks as plainly as the look upon her face. “I am a mother,” she repeats as she watches him fall in relief against a silent backdrop of trees. The flag became white linen wrapped around his limbs now loose, as they become what’s wrapping round the air; children are to be saved at any cost for later use as a means of survival. “I am not holding him now,” she thinks, wondering at the weight she still feels in arms draped like curled ribbons down her side: this strength gave out what love could not, like a stick left poking dirt too loose to take the shape of letters. This is not the way to teach a child how to read nor explain ourselves as better than we really are. These are all thoughts that pass between us and ourselves; between the haze of drifting smoke and an infant’s lot in life. What is hers can never hold her interest long when nothing that is pure and good of heart can speak to god.