Flare

Two greyhounds saunter along a slow river.
The water is shallow, the shoreline is wide.
They’re sculpted as porcelain, supple and sleek.
A bright light is growing along the far side.
They slow and they stare, then uncoil like springs,
sprinting like racers in desperate flight
from the flare that will burn them
to thigh-bone and thin leg
and hollow-eyed skull –
from the ravenous light
that will sear them to cinders,
suspended in mid-stride,
twin filigrees hung
in a sunburst
of white.