Lost Patrol

Like a great glaring eye
The sun is directly above.
My mount and I
Cast no shadow
But that immediately below.

Both near and distant cap rocks
Comprise the entire geography.
It is wild and terrible
But familiar
To the extreme.

Schooner clouds
Sail the chambray skies
Silently drifting
Like remembrances
Of lost patrols.

My chestnut mount is weary
But courageous.
Her muscles work
Under my thighs
Like faithful machines
Grinding relentlessly.

Behind me a corporal
Grips the staff
Of our banner.
There being little breeze
The colors droop listlessly.

I keep the company
From exposing itself
Against the sky
Holding to the contour
Of the land.

Enough water remains
For one day
All remaining sources
Being long expired.

Our blue tunics
Are the dusty color
Of the land.
No man speaks
The only sound
Being the regular plodding
Of our mount’s hooves.

I am far
Too far from Baltimore
And the embrace of my
Lovely Lenore.

Why does a man
Sign his name
To wear a plumed hat
And brass and nickel sword?
What is the exchange rate
On service vs. the comforts
Of home and hearth?

And what must it feel like
To die
Under a sky as unkind as this?

And how does one take the arrow
To his breast
And die a man
Whom only Lenore
And poets remember?