Three boys down by the river <br />search for crawdads. One has <br />hammered a spear from a <br />curtain rod, and head down, <br />jeans rolled up to his knees, wades <br />against the river's current. <br />Barely seven, he's the most <br />determined. He'll go home <br />hours from now with nothing <br />to show for his efforts except <br />dirt and sweat and that residue <br />he's unaware of sifting <br />down from a distant sky <br />and glinting like threads <br />of mica across his shoulders. <br />In the distance someone keeps <br />calling the names of the brothers <br />in the same order over <br />and over, but they don't hear <br />what with the river bank gorged <br />with blue weed patches and all <br />the birds in hiding. Perhaps no <br />one is calling and it's only <br />the voices of the air as <br />the late light of June hangs on <br />in the cottonwoods before <br />the dark gets the last word.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/unholy-saturday/
