Purpley. Prickly. Sprouting up quickly
by every fence
and every tree.
Hiding the rabbits of suburbia.
Every lawn needs
a Barberry bush.
It was apparent that the barn was unsalvageable. Flames licked up into the humid August twilight; billowing smoke obstructed the stars and flickered eerily in the dark. On the ground near the building, lumbering shapes moved toward shelter. The old mare and the hogs were far enough from the flames to be safe. The hens couldn’t be seen.
Standing in the shrubs and thorns to the north, a boy and a girl stood watching the fire. The girl’s dress was torn and blackened, and her hands badly scratched. There was blood on the cast on the boy’s arm, and one side of his face was red where the heat had seared it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, barely audible.
The girl said nothing.