Storm

Defense
against.  Offense
against.  
Siege in progress.

These colors don’t run,
these walls hold fast,  these weapons 
never have an opportunity
to rust.

Smell the iron on the wind:
whose blood is that?

Close edge of the surrounding wood —
two does, one fawn,
peering out of darkness under
the pines.

Rain on the wind, 
wall of nimbus behind the trees.
Two soldiers crying now
as they have not till now.  

Why cry? Comrades,
the storm is made to refresh us — 
be washed, be ready, 

for the deer
have just fled back
under the pines.