War

A rising sun on a smoldering valley.
A smell, offensive, persistent,
Overwhelms the odor of smoke
That rises from the burnt out trees.

Union troops intent on stripping the dead -
Boots, belts, anything of use.
Soon the fallen will share a common pit.
In time new life will replace this scarred landscape
And the smell of death will diminish and pass.
But for now it is omnipresent.

In the valley the sounds that fix attention
Are reduced from yesterday’s Armageddon,
No cannons, no rebel battle-cries charge the field
With terror and panic.

Today it is the moans and screams
Of the wounded and dying, men and horses,
Pained beyond endurance, waiting for help
Or death.

We kill fewer horses now.