The county plow had done its job

Before the sun had shown

It scraped its blade and bared the road

Through drifts which winds had blown

Banking-bordered edges where

Untouched – the fields remain

An empty, silent battlefield

Snow white upon the plain

To the east the pines and cedars

Seem much closer, hunkered down

Their shoulders touched – arms interlock

Determined – battle-gowned

The ancient orchard leaned upon

The farmer’s southern granite wall

Limbs aching hands grasping, clawing

As dead soldiers where they fall

The vanquished army had fled westward

Cloaked in rising, thick sea smoke

Claimed their dead and armaments

Their wounded cursed from battered boats

I walked the smooth road at the north

‘Till cold forced me – homeward bound

It crept and touched my finger tips

While frost- like blood – seeped deep into the ground