The swing set chains squeal  
as if they are themselves children,
strange rusty old
children
playing anxious,
screeching
games.

Shiver, trees.
Turn your silver skyward.
The air sighs,
sighs but feels nothing.
These things are natural.
These things are alive.

The rainbows are next.

They are made of
the colors that belonged
to the flowers
before the thunder came and crushed them.