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In bello nihil tam leve est quod non magnae interdum rei momentum faciat - Livy
Now is the time for eerie wind.
Now is the time for darting rain.
Here young, red leaves tear from the boughs -
And on the grass their heaps are lain.
A premonition’s in the wind,
There’s something hurting in the rain.
And breath is bitter in the air,
To touch wet ground is to fingerpaint.
A cloud’s come from beyond the seas
To bring us tidings of the slain:
The bawl of boys is on the wind,
Their blood is mingled with the rain.