Red horizon, a net of mosquitos
dot our skin, robbing our blood
like Sam Houston robbed lives
at the muddy, brown San Jacinto;
we pause there, soaking in history,
as though covered in mist.

Above us, a lone star perches
atop a stone obelisk, a beacon
shining in twilight, bright and
majestic, taller than the battle
was long, the Mexican army
caught asleep, stumbling into a rout.

We are alone on this battleground;
I can feel the souls chasing the
warm breeze as it hides your face
with hair, too thin a disguise, like
Santa Anna’s, humiliated and fleeing,
to be a prisoner of war.