By: Sam Kvale
Larks call the begining of day.
Uniformed men rest arms on drained knees, letting
Drowsy eyes be rubbed, eager for contents of the frying pan.
And a dew washed meadow reflects the majestic sunlight.
Bugles wail,
Worried glances hold muskets at attention.
The captain's stamping horse suggests paramount urgency,
And the cannon's mouth is ready to project its rancor.
Wham!
Thousands of bullets chew through regiments.
Rage echoes off teh remote pines, adrenaline heaves,
While eyes glaze over crimson, spitting away exhaustion.
A faint bang
Thuds reiterate the collapsing corpses,
Cold faces press against frosty soil,
Smoke sifts in wisps to mingle with the spirits.
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