Between the bright mid-summer sun
And the broken fields of folly,
Scavengers circle silently,
silhouetted dark as murder.
Their ever-descending flight paths
Cautiously converge in a macabre dance,
A slow race against the shovels below,
Vying for unearned spoils of war.
Curtains drawn wide, a scene unfolds,
Through a portal of rain-glazed glass.
Near-barren oak and ash
Stand in silent vigil.
A few brave leaves resist
Within their bastion of boughs.
Glowing in their autumnal gold,
Steadfast against the wind’s howling siege,
They hold their arboreal high ground
With fierce resolve,
Channeling Chamberlain’s desperate defense
Of the far left Federal flank.
Awaiting the final order, tense and poised,
For a noble, resolute descent,
A countercharge from their lofty perch,
Down the slopes,
In a gallant sweep,
To the embracing arms of the earth below.
The Truth About Tigers 