He waited for the sun to go down,
stared up at the evening sky,
his hands in his pockets, his mind on the time,
his soul with the birds that flew high above him,
white birds in perfect formation, so white
they were nearly clear. Soon they would disappear.
The end of the day drew near.
He knew these were not birds of peace; they carried no
branches of olive.
They were large, they were strong, they were ready to fight, they flew
with a soldier’s sorrow and pride.