Rain is making a racket in the gutter,
an insistent, wistful, tinny hum,
spread across the acacias,
across their intense, waiting scents.
The dogs stare vacantly at the yellow horizon.
They scent the hunt, and the wet, alien animal.
A mild evening is on its way.
The wall is sticky and sweating.
The boys stroke the wet dogs
and their own tight unknown bodies.