They are gone, or most of them are gone, into that pit, along with any care to hear their cry and having the evil of their cause swept in after them and sealed with and under tons of sand.  For the ones not buried in this tidal wave their death in some other form met them and caught up with them and covered them quickly like a curiously heavy blanket, the body heat nakedly creeping out through the door left hanging open by the rapidly departing spirit and eyes left open in confusion and mortal fright of the door.  They fought mostly half-heartedly, they died anonymously and unavoidably.  The boots of RIGHT can not halt or falter when pursuing and chasing not men but a thought, a spirit of evil, across and out of a terrorized land.  Wind chasing a wind.  Let the brutal ridding and retribution finalize and resonate to all who dare look us in the eye again.  Sand has covered them, has covered the tracks of our armored vehicles, our gunjeeps, our racing loaded trucks ferrying tank rounds and fuel, chasing up and along behind their attacking rolling mounted firing counterparts to hurry on the supplies of whatever it took to march over the evil.

The wind blows there now I'm sure on quiet starry nights that get perhaps quite cold.  No GIs are there now to sip the hot pre-war thermos coffee and share a laugh on guard before knowing the outcome, sharing the unknown of everything before the war; the only thermos now tilted up and then tightly closed against the molecular attrition of the precious heat contained in the coffee is in the gloved hand of a post-war tower guard in a wooden guard tower at the undisclosed ammo dump, lonelily (new word) eying the flat plate of crusty sand tipping ever so slightly and gently upwards before him in the great upslope northward toward Iraq.

A dog walks by, a stray, white under the gentle dim moonlight.  The guard eyes it down there, out there, spooked for a moment.  It is not who he thought it was.  He sips his coffee.

On the entrance road he has seen the half-sunken donuts, each embedded tire upright in the ground marking a grave to be tended to properly someday by someone if they can or if they care.  One set of four tires along the main highway he regarded in the arrangement of an inverted buried car, why is a car buried upside-down in the sand with only tires showing out now, how odd; no, that was four Iraqis or even a very large amount of them in one place.  Before you ask, I can only say that Necessity does not evoke sorrow, this scene of retribution evokes awe at the Hand of Justice.

I hope they left all the blown up tanks lay where they ran out of wind, where the Good Wind caught up to them, snapping the turrets from their backs in instant lightning death, of snap-shot-bang remote distantly launched high-explosive, death-bringing, ear-ringing munition.  Leaving the turret curiously and forever thrown like a lawn ornament laying at odd angles nearby.  The happily spinning turret laughing one minute at all it spun and conquered and surveyed and saw, now running in an unknown terror and in one instant of thunder turned into a lawn ornament ten yards from the track showing even to unobservant passers-by that something is dreadfully wrong here.  If iron could be sensate its last thought would have been WHAT THE....  Let it lie there.  Let it sink not into the sand.  Let its bulky, pitted steel, green- and soot-painted body stand firm through centuries of metallurgical and pyrotechnical No-Trespassing testament.