Night March

—June 6, 1863

No one quails. We take up a line of march, "Hole!" passed front to rear, straight through the nighthawks' crazy lines diving for bugs, wingbands flickering ghostly— tramping dust through cold blood frog and star song. We tie anything that waggles, carry guns right shoulder shift. The scouts kill rattlers in the road and we see their cats' eyes waiting in the cane for rats, the way funneling us onto a path stumbling, uneven— compensate—fatigue's colors sparkling brain, one peels off crashing stalks. Which palmetto sniper will dazzle with muzzle blast? Route step, we reach to touch the boy in front piling into him, curses whispered up and down the column— General Taylor's silhouette rides by with his two sons dead from scarlet fever. Heart, someone must pay for all this darkness.