Theresa Burns

It was opera out there— it had been raining all day— the trees were slaying the clouds and stealing their mists. I rushed to get you to walk with me through the beast of it, but you refused my overtures, learned further into our usual. I cursed you, set out on my own, returned twenty minutes later, fiery eyed and still hungry. You missed the double rainbow, I howled, on my way to set the table. Not till dinner was finished, the plates and glasses racked, did you show me the picture you caught on your phone. Twin arcs high above the houses one red-edged, inflamed, the other already fading.