The radar shows the downpour
will end in five minutes,
eight of us stand on the veranda
of the brewery
waiting for it to let up
before we resume our cornhole competition,
this is a game of slanted boards, beanbags
measured distance,
sacred rules and cash prizes.
Without apparent reason the screen
switches to the news
with video of a war bombing
followed by a frame of a frantic man
holding what could be a lifeless child,
he holds his arms out
as if giving us a gift.
Someone curses
and grabs the remote
to switch it back to the weather.
When the rain stops
we stomp down the steps 
to the cornhole pit.
Noone seems to want to pick up
a beanbag