Day 1,077

She was eight years old. Her brother,
five. They were walking,
hand in hand, to where
they could fill a bucket of water
so their mother could make breakfast.
Neither of them had shoes.
Neither of them had a jacket.
September morning, the ground
still warmed by summer. Summer air.
One star still shining in the sky:
they saw it as they walked.
A crescent moon, fading
into daylight. They walked,
the boy holding the empty bucket,
the girl holding her brother’s hand
tight, as though to keep him
from disappearing
as their father had disappeared.
Two older brothers. They were walking
to fill a bucket of water
when the drone started circling
above them. Early morning.
Someone in some room
somewhere else, sighting them.
Fixing them in his sights. Firing.
The star still shimmering
as the children’s blood
spilled over the dust.