On the unbreathing sides of hills br they play, a specklike girl and boy, br alone, but near a specklike house. br The Sun's suspended eye br blinks casually, and then they wade br gigantic waves of light and shade. br A dancing yellow spot, a pup, br attends them. Clouds are piling up; br br a storm piles up behind the house. br The children play at digging holes. br The ground is hard; they try to use br one of their father's tools, br a mattock with a broken haft br the two of them can scarcely lift. br It drops and clangs. Their laughter spreads br effulgence in the thunderheads, br br Weak flashes of inquiry br direct as is the puppy's bark. br But to their little, soluble, br unwarrantable ark, br apparently the rain's reply br consists of echolalia, br and Mother's voice, ugly as sin, br keeps calling to them to come in. br br Children, the threshold of the storm br has slid beneath your muddy shoes; br wet and beguiled, you stand among br the mansions you may choose br out of a bigger house than yours, br whose lawfulness endures. br It's soggy documents retain br your rights in rooms of falling rain.