Surreal is the night
in shadows,
even air dares not
to follow,
lest a sound stirs
in the hollows,
wakes the guns
that seek
to bring us down,
before we find them.
Ring of sweat
upon the snow,
glistening there
at twenty below.
Every hush of sound
a blare,
every muffled cough
a scare.
Thirteen men in single file,
avoid the ground
where mines defile;
frozen in their winter sleep,
one may wake
beneath our feet.
BY: JOHN KENT