Tonight,
the skies will fall

and slip below the vale

of light.
Tonight,
the stars will break.

What are you doing,
Making a trap.
What will you trap,
'
What,
Skies. Bugs. God. They're all gonna snag.

Back and front and back across the field bare feet will march, the fragile web of thread lighting the way. It rolls out from the tube again again again cupped in flung out hands, trembling for release.
Feet carve a path in the grass, a great wide runnel pushed down by a big finger, swaying pathetically half-up, falling down into crumpledness so much easier.
Twine arcs the broad chest of brown, high enough to jump, and the feet spark back again. Trample the downed grass.


They're all gonna catch.