The flaps of wings carry across the collective shrill and, below, 

a little boy's palm plasters against his mouth.

The pink lady sits in her lover’s blood, 

and, heads turn hard and swift, scanning for death’s piercing gaze.

Against his ears and then his eyes and then his mouth, perches a little boy's palm.

Men in black suits and glasses force the crowd away from the street.

Heads turn hard and swift, longing for death’s piercing gaze

but meet the flashes of cameras and whirling color.

Black suits and glasses shove men and women away from the street.

The sun gleams hot silver off the Lincoln’s sticky leather and broken glass.

All meet the crude flashes of cameras, and whirling color.

All catch the whiff of burnt flesh and scattered grief.

The sun gleams hot silver off the car’s sticky leather and broken glass. 

The Texas School Book Depository stands rooted, a brick branch from Earth.

They all catch the whiff of burnt brain and scattered grief atop the pavement. 

A swelter tussles against the November mist.

The depository serves as a branch of shade amongst the heat 

for a man, who lifts the boy and carries onward, through

a swelter and a cool mist.

Soon, shouts will abate and running will cease.

The boy is lifted and carried back by a man who hears

the flapping of the bird's wings carried across the collective shrill. Below,

shouts abate, running ceases,

and the pink lady sits in her lover’s blood.