The dance of the vultures o'er frosted red clay ,smoke swirling in the timid valley , ominous vibes in the winter grass alley ....
In the Principality of the Pulpwood Stumps
A wounded , worried lover's psyche tortured
Misty rain , copious memory hound weathered men and brothers
Barking corporals , leathered skin , soggy dens ..                                     Nutcrackers form a line , stand tall , call cadence then break into attention
Tight , bright , impeccably sutured uniforms crackle in the biting breeze , adorned in silver clasp with pink marble buttons securing slingshot munitions ...
With cherry cheeks a bugler splits the silence
The soldiers load their roscoe's
Keepers of the Grass hurl sweet gum cones
high into the orange eve
Locust spears guard fescue forts and hillside -
tunnels
Cracked corn funneled into hollow onion stems
The November battlefield looms dark and silent-
as the autumn bulb dims ...
A spiffy locust then proclaims from a tall tree
War is finished for you and me ..
The pasture of our forefathers shall be -
divided in thirds
A share for every mammal , insect and bird ...