High Ground
Straight as a cut
The path leads north
And south.
The west wind runs
Cold fingers through my hair.
Dry stems and branches creak
And clatter against themselves
As the ice-glistening snow
Lies like sculpture
Upon the waking ground.
Why have I come here?
This far planet of hate
Bathed in the blood of its minions
Crying for a hand of kindness
To wipe away its tears.
The black crows quork
And war jets thunder overhead.
The forest asks no questions,
And to the north
Call the pines.
