Waves of mystic wind born this moment
the first cut into hallowed ground
I search relics of the ****** battle of Cool Spring
yelps of Soldiers, first blurred
then sharpening into individual clarity
rein down like passing bullets upon my ears
shadows run along the hill that drops off to the creek
as tree limbs orchestrate
thunderous hooves dart past and through me
leaves lift and swirl like tiny tornadoes
I click off the machine and remove the shovel
from the gaping wound
silence falls and in this empty wood
my thoughts of sorrow are heard
upon the wound a button lay
pristeen as the day it fell
some hundred fifty years ago
a shadow dips below the hill
I take the button
and leave a tear
for the souls of Cool Spring