Day 533

In the dust, children are drawing.
They are drawing with sticks,
with their fingers.  One draws a house:
someone’s face in a window, a tall
stick figure outside, surrounded
by smaller ones.  A father
and his children?  Another child
draws two cats eating.  Another
is drawing a garden:  rows of flowers,
melons, squash.  Above it, a sun
whose rays stand out in all
directions:  shining.  Shining.
The children are drawing all afternoon.
The adults come and watch 
now and then, but don’t
say anything.  They know
the children are aware 
that — in a matter
of hours? — their drawings
will be erased
by rain, blown away
by wind, destroyed
by bombing.  They know
the children know this,
even as they trace their
careful, skillful lines
in the dust:  stopping,
looking, correcting.