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.