Stalingrad

Glint of silver off the frozen Volga.Her burnt-out stove coldcompanion to the girlcrouched behind,silver with fear, eyesfrozen on the bulletsshooting through the door.She is not running to take her place at the guns.She is not like her neighbors,resolute in their flinty Russian blood.Outside the stiffening carcassesmix into rubbleeight meters high.The world will end and not end.On Groundhog Daythe battle will be over,casting a thin silver glare,a shadow of winter, not spring.It is impossible to imaginethis girl in a future, only a silverpenumbra of grief and time, glintinglike the rusty metal splintersand bits of boneone will find to this dayin the hills above the city.